"People will say," Rose pursued, "that there was no motive for suicide—nothing to worry about. He'd won heaps of money, and seemed very keen on the villa he'd bought."
"By Jove, I wonder what'll happen to that unlucky villa now!" Carleton exclaimed. "Somehow, Hannaford didn't seem the sort of chap to bother about wills and leaving all his affairs nice and tidy in case anything happened."
"He told me once that he had no people—that he was entirely alone," said George. "Still, he must have had friends, friends far more intimate than those he made here. Even we were no more than acquaintances. He gave us no confidence."
"I can't imagine his confiding in any one," Rose said. "But—I'm not at all sure whether it's a coincidence or not: a letter has just come by the afternoon post, for Mary Grant, in his handwriting. It has an Italian stamp, and is post-marked Ventimiglia. Probably he wrote it yesterday, at the Château Lontana, knowing it wouldn't get to her till this afternoon, as the posts from Italy are so slow."
"How strange!" George exclaimed. "Strange, and very sad."
"The letter hadn't been in the house five minutes, when Dick came in with the news of his death."
George's eyes, which appeared always to see something mysteriously beautiful behind people's heads, fixed themselves on vacancy that did not seem to be vacant for him. "Hannaford was there in his house alone yesterday, writing to Miss Grant," he murmured. "How little he thought that when she read his letter he would be in another world."
"I wonder?" Rose whispered. "It is long after five. Mary will be coming in soon. Then, perhaps, we shall know."