Matilda likewise collapsed into a chair.  “Oh, isn’t it awful, ma’am,” she moaned.

“So—­so it’s I—­that’s—­that’s dead!” mumbled Mrs. De Peyster.

“Yes, ma’am.  But that isn’t all.  I—­I thought I’d break it to you gently.  That was over a week ago.  Since then—­”

“You mean,” breathed the marble lips of Mrs. De Peyster, “that there’s something more?”

“Yes, ma’am.  Oh, the papers have been full of it.  It’s been a tremendous sensation!”

“Oh!” gasped Mrs. De Peyster.

“And Mr. Jack, since you died without a will, is your heir.  And, since he is now the head of the De Peyster family, the first thing he did on hearing the news was to arrange by cable to have your body sent here.”

Mrs. De Peyster, as though galvanized, half rose from her chair.

“You mean—­my body—­is coming here?”

“I said I was trying to break it to you gently,” moaned Matilda.  “It’s—­it’s already here.  The ship that brought it is now docking.  Your funeral—­”

“My funeral!”

“It takes place in the drawing-room, this morning.  Oh, isn’t it awful!  But, perhaps, ma’am, if you could see what beautiful flowers your friends have sent—­”

But Mrs. De Peyster had very softly sunk back into her chair.

[Illustration:  “SO—­SO IT’S I—­THAT’S—­THAT’S DEAD!”]

CHAPTER XXI

THE VEILED LADY

As soon as that huddled mass of womanhood that was Mrs. De Peyster had become sufficiently reanimated to be able to think, its first thought came in the form of an unuttered wail.

She was dead!  She was to be buried!  She could never come home again!

Or if she did come home, what a scandal!  A scandal out-scandalizing anything of which she had ever dreamed!  A scandal worse ten times than the very grave itself!

With loose face and glazed eyes she stared at Matilda while the latter stammered out disjointed details of the past week’s happenings.  As for Mr. Jack’s lark in dwelling surreptitiously with his wife in his mother’s house, not a breath of that had reached the public.  With Mr. Pyecroft’s aid, and Judge Harvey’s, he had managed this well.  He had told the reporters that he had been quietly married over three weeks before, that he and his wife had been living in seclusion, and that on learning of his mother’s demise they had come to the house to direct the obsequies....  Those Paris police were trying to solve the mystery of what had become of Mrs. De Peyster’s trunks....  If Mrs. De Peyster could only see the beautiful floral tributes that were arriving, particularly the large wreath sent by Mrs. Allistair—­

But Mrs. De Peyster heard none of this.  She was dead!  She was to be buried!  She could never come home again!

At length her lips moved—­slowly, stiffly, as might the lips of a dead person.

“What are we going to do?”