"He brought a letter for Mr. Ferrier, sir, half an hour ago."
Chide's face changed.
"Where is the letter?" He turned to the doctor, who shook his head.
"I saw nothing when we brought him in."
Marsham, who had overheard the conversation, came forward.
"Perhaps on the grass--"
Chide--pale, with drawn brows--looked at him a moment in silence.
Marsham hurried to the garden and to the spot under the yews, where the death had taken place. Round the garden chairs were signs of trampling feet--the feet of the gardeners who had carried the body. A medley of books, opened letters, and working-materials lay on the grass. Marsham looked through them; they all belonged to Diana or Mrs. Colwood. Then he noticed a cushion which had fallen beside the chair, and a corner of newspaper peeping from below it. He lifted it up.
Below lay Broadstone's open letter, in its envelope, addressed first in the Premier's well-known handwriting to "The Right Honble. John Ferrier, M.P."--and, secondly, in wavering pencil, to "Lady Lucy Marsham, Tallyn Hall."
Marsham turned the letter over, while thoughts hurried through his brain. Evidently Ferrier had had time to read it. Why that address to his mother?--and in that painful hand--written, it seemed, with the weakness of death already upon him?