"I found the enclosed on my arrival at the Bank this morning. It may be important, so I send it on at once.
"And let me take this opportunity, dear Madam, of assuring you of my very sincere sympathy. I, too, have known during the last few days what it was to feel that hope deferred maketh the heart sick.
"Yours respectfully,
"David Privet."
She turned, with only languid interest, to the envelope. The address was typewritten:—
Mrs. G. Pavely,
c/o Messrs. Pavely & Co.,
Bankers,
Pewsbury.
It was marked "Private," "Immediate," but that, as Laura well knew, meant very little. A certain number of times, perhaps half a dozen times in all, during her married life, some unfortunate, humble client of her husband's had written to her a personal appeal. Each of these letters had been of a painful and disagreeable nature, often couched in pitiful, eloquent terms, and Godfrey had not allowed her to answer any one of them save in the most formal, cold way.
This typewritten envelope looked as if it might have come from some distressed tradesman. So she opened the envelope reluctantly, not taking heed, as a different type of woman would have done, to the postmark on it. Indeed, without thinking of what she was doing, she threw the envelope mechanically into the burning fire, and then opened out the large sheet of thin paper.
But, as she looked down at the lines of typewriting, she stiffened into instant, palpitating, horrified attention, for this is what she saw there:
"Madame,—It is with the deepest regret that I acquaint you with the fact that your esteemed husband, Mr. Godfrey Pavely, of Messrs. Pavely & Co., Bankers, of Pewsbury, Wiltshire, is dead.