“Quite right too; it ought to be vigorously prosecuted—­attack should follow attack.”

“We shall hear of one or more before long,” went on Mr. Faulks, growing more and more garrulous.  “Our advanced trenches are creeping very near, and I expect any day to hear that the French have stormed the Mamelon, and our people the Quarries.”

“Indeed?  That is very interesting.  And we shall take them—­do you think?”

“We must.  The attacking columns will be of great strength, and the attack will be preceded by a tremendous cannonade.”

“So we may expect great news in the next few days?” said Mrs. Wilders, eagerly.

“More bloodshed!” added Mrs. Jones, with a deep sigh.  “This terrible war!”

“You can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs,” said Mr. Hobson, sententiously.  “The more terrible a war is, the sooner it is ended.”

“We are getting very ghastly in our talk,” said Mrs. Wilders.  “Suppose we go into the drawing-room and have some tea.”

As they passed out of the dining-room, Mr. Hobson managed to whisper a few words.

“I have squeezed him dry:  that was all I wanted to know.  I need not stay any longer, I think.”

“Who knows?  His special messenger may come down with the very latest.  If so, you ought to be able to extract that from him too.”

Mrs. Wilders spoke these words carelessly; but, as often happens, they correctly foretold what presently occurred.

When they were all seated cosily around the tea-table, Mrs. Wilders’s man brought in a great dispatch upon a salver.

“For Mr. Faulks,” he said, and with an air of the greatest importance the hard-worked, indispensable official tore open the cover.

It contained a few hurried lines from Sir Humphrey Fothergill to the following effect:—­

“A telegram has just been received from Lord Raglan.  It contains painful news for you; but I thought it best to let you have it at once.”

He opened the telegram with trembling hands and read—­

“Yesterday, Mr. McKay, of the quartermaster-general’s staff, ventured through the enemy’s lines in the direction of the Tchernaya to make a special reconnaissance.  He unfortunately was captured.  I sent a flag of truce into Sebastopol, asking that he might be exchanged, but have been peremptorily refused.  Gortschakoff asserts that he is a Russian subject and was taken red-handed as a spy.  He is to be executed immediately.  Will renew request with strong protest, but fear there is no hope.”

Mr. Faulks groaned heavily and let the telegram fall on the ground.

“What has happened?” asked Mrs. Wilders, eagerly.

“You were right—­too right.  That poor boy—­”

“Stanislas?”

“Yes; my poor nephew has fallen into the hands of these bloodthirsty
Russians, who are resolved to execute him as a traitor and a spy.”

CHAPTER VI.