"She told me"--they hardly recognized the woman's voice--"to give you this as soon as she died. She told me to telephone Mr. Wilberforce, Mr. James Wilberforce. There's a letter for him, you know. I'm going to telephone Mr. Wilberforce in the morning. But this--this is for you, Mr. Ronnie. She said I was to give it to you as soon as I possibly could. She said I was to tell you that you were not to show it to anybody else until you had spoken to Mr. Wilberforce, Mr. James Wilberforce."
"Man," Aliette had risen; "what can it be?"
"It's a book." Ronnie spoke in a whisper. "The manuscript of a book. I wonder if she finished it."
"Yes. She finished it." The automaton handed her burden, to Ronnie, and disappeared.
"She"--Aliette moved away from the sofa where they had been sitting--"she said you weren't to show it to any one else."
"But that couldn't have included you."
"I'd rather not see--not yet." She was at the door now; and Ronnie, looking up at her--the parcel still in his hands--saw that she had gone very pale.
"Darling," he asked, "you're not ill, are you?"
"Ill?" She laughed--unsteadily--her fingers on the door-handle. "Ill? No, I'm not ill--only ... only----"
"But you are ill." He put the parcel down on the sofa and came across the room toward her. "Why, you're shaking all over."