“Don’t waste time,” she pleaded. “Do something! Letters! What does it matter about letters?”
“It is from your uncle,” he told her solemnly. “Probably the last thing he ever wrote.”
She tore open the envelope with quick, nervous fingers, anxious yet reluctant. She began to read with a sort of sullen indifference. Then she seemed suddenly galvanised into a new and amazingly altered state of living. Mr. Johnson, as he watched her, was terrified. She sprang to her feet and shrieked out at the top of her voice.
“Read it! Read it yourself!” she cried, gripping him by the arm, so that her fingers bored their way into his flesh. “Read it and tell me that it is the truth! Let me see too. Spell it out! Read it!”
Their heads touched. Her breath came hot upon his cheek. She grasped the letter as though afraid it might be torn from her.
The Great House,
Saturday night.
My dear Claire,
I went to London this morning with the shadow of a fear—no more. I come back—doomed. You can hear all about it, if you like, from Sir Francis Moore, 18 Harley Street. Three months to live and much suffering! I think not. I shall end it to-night. You will be rich—much richer than you think. Malcolm’s have my will. You and your aunt will share alike. I enclose in this letter a translation of a document which will tell you, unless the document lies, how to obtain the treasure in the Images. Use it as you will. I have no interest. I should have liked a year or two here, but I prefer what is to come to an increase of the agony of which I have already had a foretaste. I hope that you will be happy.
Ralph Endacott.