“Oh, Julie!” cried the Duchess, catching the traveller’s hands, as they drove away.  “Julie, darling!”

Julie turned to her in amazement.  The blue eyes fixed upon her had no tears, but in them, and in the Duchess’s whole aspect, was expressed a vivid horror and agitation which struck at Julie’s heart.

“What is it?” she said, catching her breath.  “What is it?”

“Julie, I was going to Faircourt this morning.  First your telegram stopped me.  I thought I’d wait and go with you.  Then came another, from Delafield.  The Duke!  The poor Duke!”

Julie’s attitude changed unconsciously—­instantly.

“Yes; tell me!”

“It’s in all the papers to-night—­on the placards—­don’t look out!” And the Duchess lifted her hand and drew down the blinds of the brougham.  “He was in a most anxious state yesterday, but they thought him calmer at night, and he insisted on being left alone.  The doctors still kept a watch, but he managed in some mysterious way to evade them all, and this morning he was missed.  After two hours they found him—­in the river that runs below the house!”

There was a silence.

“And Jacob?” said Julie, hoarsely.

“That’s what I’m so anxious about,” exclaimed the Duchess.  “Oh, I am thankful you’ve come!  You know how Jacob’s always felt about the Duke and Mervyn—­how he’s hated the notion of succeeding.  And Susan, who went down yesterday, telegraphed to me last night—­before this horror—­that he was ‘terribly strained and overwrought.’”

“Succeeding?” said Julie, vaguely.  Mechanically she had drawn up the blind again, and her eyes followed the dingy lines of the Vauxhall Bridge Road, till suddenly they turned away from the placards outside a small stationer’s shop which announced:  “Tragic death of the Duke of Chudleigh and his son.”

The Duchess looked at her curiously without replying.  Julie seemed to be grappling with some idea which escaped her, or, rather, was presently expelled by one more urgent.

“Is Jacob ill?” she said, abruptly, looking her companion full in the face.

“I only know what I’ve told you.  Susan says ‘strained and overwrought.’  Oh, it’ll be all right when he gets you!”

Julie made no reply.  She sat motionless, and the Duchess, stealing another glance at her, must needs, even in this tragic turmoil, allow herself the reflection that she was a more delicate study in black-and-white, a more refined and accented personality than ever.

“You won’t mind,” said Evelyn, timidly, after a pause; “but Lady Henry is staying with me, and also Sir Wilfrid Bury, who had such a bad cold in his lodgings that I went down there a week ago, got the doctor’s leave, and carried him off there and then.  And Mr. Montresor’s coming in.  He particularly wanted, he said, just to press your hand.  But they sha’n’t bother you if you’re tired.  Our train goes at 10.10, and Freddie has got the express stopped for us at Westonport—­about three in the morning.”