He lifted the poor old man to a sofa, and a scrap of paper dropped from the nerveless fingers, bearing these words:
Tracked at last, Lambert Egerton, assassin of the Count Crispi, of blessed memory. It is useless to evade us longer. Your doom is sealed! Your life and the life of the child of the false Theresa Ludovci are demanded by the Brotherhood. Blood for blood! Prepare, for at any moment the avenger may be upon you! You are spared a little longer, so that you may understand the tortures of the doomed!
The writing was a mere scrawl, and the spelling and grammar proclaimed the author to be an illiterate foreigner.
For a minute Sir Harold stared at the paper aghast, then darting through the open doorway, he plunged into the garden in quest of the man or woman the shock of whose presence had deprived Mr. Hamilton of life.
CHAPTER XIX.
A FUNERAL AND A WEDDING.
In every bush, and tree, and lurking shadow the young baronet probed, but without avail. The evil messenger was gone, and he now had to break the awful news to poor Theresa.
He stood for a few minutes with his hands clasped to his throbbing temples. Then he hurried back to the cottage, and after taking one hasty glance about him, his first care was to destroy the fatal scrawl.
This much accomplished, he crept softly to Stimson’s room, hastily roused the man, and sent him for the nearest doctor.
“Mr. Hamilton is dead,” he whispered to the horrified valet; “has died of heart failure! To me it was not unexpected, as he predicted it only a few days since; but we must have the independent opinion of a doctor to save trouble.”