He hesitated, the fingers of one hand working a little, an unusual sign of agitation with him.
With an effort at last he spoke. "Your ladyship instructed me to open any telegram that might arrive."
Her heart gave a great throb of foreboding. "Certainly," she said. "Has there been a telegram then?"
Dimsdale's hand clenched. He looked at her anxiously, rather piteously.
"My lady—" he said, and stopped.
Anne stood like a statue. She felt as if her vitality were suddenly arrested, as if every pulse had ceased to beat.
"Please go on," she said in a whisper. "There has been a telegram. Either give it to me, or—tell me what was in it."
Dimsdale made a jerky movement, as if pulling himself together. He put an unsteady hand into his breast-pocket. "It came this afternoon, my lady, about an hour ago. I am afraid it's bad news—very bad news. Yes, my lady, I'm telling you, I'm telling you. I regret to say Sir Giles has been took worse, took very sudden like, and—and—"
"He is dead," Anne said very clearly, very steadily, in a tone that was neither of question nor of exclamation.
Dimsdale bent his head. "He died at half-past three, my lady."