Come here at once. Your Cousin George is no more. I want your help.
Shocked by this news she managed to catch the midday train to London. At Rugby she saw the placard of an evening paper. On it, among other news’ headings, was printed: “Sad death of a well-known peer.” She bought the paper, and after some search found a short paragraph which said:
“We regret to announce that Lord Devene was found dead in bed at his house in Grosvenor Square this morning. The cause of his death is not yet known.” Then followed some biographical details and these words: “As Lord Devene lost his only son some months ago, it is believed that the peerage becomes extinct. The settled property, however, passes to his cousin, Richard Learmer, Esq., M.P.”
From the station Edith drove direct to Grosvenor Square and was received by Tabitha in the drawing-room. There she sat in her black dress, sad-faced, calm, imposing, like an incarnation, Edith thought, of that fate whereof her father had spoken to her at their last interview. They embraced each other without warmth, for at heart these two women were not friends.
“How did it happen?” asked Edith.
“He died as her first ladyship died,” answered the widow, “by an overdose of chloral. You know he could never sleep.”
“How did he come to take an overdose?” asked Edith again.
“I do not know,” she answered meaningly; “perhaps the doctors they can tell you. Would you like to see him?”
“No,” said Edith, with a shudder; “I had rather not.”
“Ach!” said Lady Devene, “I forgot; you did always run away from the sick and fear the dead; it is your nature.”