A gust of wind, coming down from the mountains, carried the telegram gently to the floor.

Warrington, leaning against the table, stared down at it.
What frightful things these missives are! Charged with success or failure, riches or poverty, victory or defeat, births or deaths, they fly to and fro around the great world hourly, on ominous and sinister wings.

A letter often fails to reach us, but a telegram, never.

It is the messenger of fate, whose emissaries never fail to arrive.
Death had never before looked into Warrington's life; he had viewed it with equanimity, with a tolerant pity for those who succumbed to it, for those whose hearts it ravaged with loneliness and longing.

He had used it frequently in his business as a property by which to arouse the emotions of his audiences.