Kennedy turned the knob quickly and strode in.
Seated in a chair, as white as a wraith from the grave, was Mrs.
Godwin, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.
"What's the matter?" demanded Kennedy, leaping to her side and
grasping her icy hand.
The stare on her face seemed to change slightly as she recognised
him.
"Walter--some water--and a little brandy--if there is any. Tell
me--what has happened?"
From her lap a yellow telegram had fluttered to the floor, but
before he could pick it up, she gasped, "The appeal--it has been
denied." Kennedy picked up the paper. It was a message, unsigned,
but not from Kahn, as its wording and in fact the circumstances
plainly showed.
"The execution is set for the week beginning the fifth," she
continued, in the same hollow, mechanical voice. "My God--that's
next Monday!"
She had risen now and was pacing the room.
"No! I'm not going to faint. I wish I could. I wish I could cry. I
wish I could do something. Oh, those Elmores--they must have sent
it.
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