y-haired woman--in grief.

"I hear you found Broadstone's letter?" He glanced at it on her lap. "I
too have heard from him. The messenger, as soon as he knew I was here,
produced a letter for me that he was to have taken on to Lytchett. It is
a nice letter--a very nice letter, as far as that goes. Broadstone
wanted me to use my influence--with John--described his difficulties--"

Chide's hand suddenly clinched on his knee.

"--If I could only get at that creature, Lord Philip!"

"You think it was the shock--killed him?" The hard slow tears had begun
again to drop upon her dress.

"Oh! he has been an ill man since May," said Chide, evasively. "No doubt
there has been heart mischief--unsuspected--for a long time. The doctors
will know--presently. Poor Broadstone!--it will nearly kill him too."

She held out the letter to him.

"You are to read it;" and then, in broken tones, pointing: "look! he
said so."

He started as he saw the writing on the back, and again his hand pressed
hers kindly.

"He felt ill," she said, brokenly; "he foresaw it. Those are his last
words--his precious last words."

She hid her face. As Chide gave it back to her, his brow and lip had
settled into the look which made him so formidable in court. He looked
round him abruptly.

"Where is the _Herald_? I hear Mrs. Colwood brought it out."

He searched the grass in vain, and the chairs. Lady Lucy was silent.
Presently she rose feebly.

"When--when will they take him away?"

"Directly. The ambulance is coming--I shall go with him. Take my arm."
She leaned on him heavily, and as they approached the house they saw two
figures step out of it--Marsham and Diana.

Diana came quickly, in her light white dress. Her eyes were red, but she
was quite composed. Chide looked at her with tenderness. In the two
hours which had passed since the tragedy she had been the help and the
support of everybody, writing, giving directions, making arrangements,
under his own guidance, while keeping herself entirely in the
background. No parade of grief, no interference with himself or the
doctors; but once, as he sat by the body in the darkened room, he was
conscious of her coming in, of her kneeling for a little while at the
dead man's side, of her soft, stifled weeping. He had not said a word to
her, nor she to him. They understood each other.

And now she came, with this wistful face, to Lady Lucy. She stood
between that lady and Marsham, in her own gard