While she was propping me up with pillows and pouring out the coffee, I looked round the room and my heart stood still.
The letter to Ruddington was gone.
My cheeks turned whiter than the sheets. Susan caught me in her arms.
"Oh, Miss Gertrude, no, no!" she wailed, "I couldn't bear it."
She thought I was going to die. I opened my eyes and tried to speak. But Susan wailed on.
"It's my fault, Miss, all mine. You're so good to me, Miss, I ought to have known. I ought to have said, 'Don't bother about his lordship, Miss, till you're well and strong.' But I didn't think. I'm too selfish, Miss. Oh, Miss Gertrude, to think you were sitting up writing and writing all that, and me snug and warm in bed!"
"Susan," I said feebly, asking the question in terror, "What have you done with it?"
"It's gone, Miss," answered Susan, with the prompt heartiness of one who breaks good news and administers consolation. "So you don't need to worry your head about it any more."
"Gone?" I echoed, in a voice as thin as a ghost's.
"Yes, Miss. Madame was going to Grandpont in the omnibus. She asked me if we had any letters for the early post. And oh, Miss Gertrude, it was perfectly lovely! I can't never thank you enough. I couldn't understand it all through; but it was so lovely, it made me cry."