Watson helped to clear the room, then he and Isaac carried the dead woman upstairs. An old man followed them, a bent and broken being, who dragged himself up the steps with his stick. Watson, out of compassion, came back to help him.
'John—yer'd better go home, an to yer bed—yer can't do no good.'
'I'll wait for Mary Anne,' said John, in a shaking whisper—'I'll wait for Mary Anne.'
And he stood at the doorway leaning on his stick; his weak and reddened eyes fixed on his cousin, his mouth open feebly.
But Mary Anne, weeping, beckoned to another woman who had come up with the little procession, and they began their last offices.
'Let us go,' said the doctor, kindly, his hand on Isaac's shoulder, 'till they have done.'
At that moment Watson, throwing a last professional glance round the room, perceived the piece of torn paper propped against the glass. Ah! there was the letter. There was always a letter.
He walked forward, glanced at it and handed it to Isaac. Isaac drew his hand across his brow in bewilderment, then seemed to recognise the handwriting and thrust it into his pocket without a word.
Watson touched his arm.
'Don't you destroy it,' he said in warning; 'it'll be asked for at the inquest.'