Bud was right. John had not heard him. He stood with the telegram torn open in his hand.
"Charles fell from El Capitan," it ran. "Body brought here. Rose."
For a moment the man gazed fixedly, deliberately but absently crushing the envelope in one hand, while the other held the open message before him. Then his lips moved slowly and without uttering a sound, they framed the words of his thought: "Charles!—Dead!—Merciful God!"
For a reflective interval the gray, startled eyes set themselves on distance and then turned again to the message. It was dated April 4.
April 4? What day was this?
On the dresser was an unopened newspaper. John remembered now he had bought it yesterday, or rather he assumed it was yesterday. The date upon the paper was April 14. If it were yesterday he bought that paper, to-day was the 15th, and Charles had been dead eleven days! What had they thought—what had they done without a word from him in this crisis? What had become of them?
And there were unopened letters on the dresser, three of them, all from Rose. John tore them open, lapping up their contents with his eyes.
