At the bottom of the pile was a large square letter which he recognized as bearing his lawyer's writing.
He frowned a little at the sight, in no mood for business, then settled down grudgingly to study the contents. Inside was an envelope with a deep black edge sealed with an elaborate coat-of-arms.
Bethune was staring into the fire, his mind still full of his friend's adventure. He felt that deep, rather wistful, admiration which a man of his type extends to those more brilliant.
A quick exclamation made him turn his head. McTaggart was plainly startled by his news.
"I say—Bethune—Good Lord—it's impossible!"
He re-read the document in his hand.
"My Uncle's dead!—and both my cousins! A motor-smash outside Rome. What an awful thing!—the car overturned..." He skimmed on, breathless—"the old man was killed ... on the spot—the eldest son, too ... the other lingered ... died on Tuesday..."
He turned the letter over. "Why, it's nearly a week old. Oh, I see!—it went to Scotland and then to my lawyers, who sent it here. They want me to go to Siena at once."
Bethune began to voice condolences.
"Oh! I never knew them. But, of course, I'm sorry. He was my mother's brother. (Just touch that bell.) They quarrelled when she married ... I shall have to go."