Peter waited for a minute or two until the gardeners had moved out of hearing, and then said abruptly and with difficulty: 'You know those papers that the doctor gave me yesterday?'
'Those notes and things which were on her writing-table?' Jane asked.
Peter nodded his head, and then with an effort began again—this time with an attempt at formality—'I 'm sorry to have to tell you that there is something in one of them that I shall have to speak to you about.'
'Something in one of your mother's notes?' asked Jane, her level eyes turned questioningly upon him.
'I 'm telling it all wrong,' said Peter distractedly, 'and making it worse for you.'
'Are you quite sure that you need tell me anything at all?' asked Jane, and she laid her hand in his.
'I am quite sure,' he said; and then a very surprising thing happened, for he put Jane's hand aside and stood up before her.
'I 'm not even going to take your hand,' he said, 'until I have told you all about it. You see, there was a letter addressed to me amongst those on her writing-table yesterday. I 've shown it to the lawyer, but neither he nor I can make anything of it. It is directed to me to be given to me at her death; but she must have died while she was writing it. It leaves off in the middle of a sentence.'
'I think,' said Jane slowly, 'that nothing matters in the whole world so long as we have each other.'
'Ah, my dear!' said Peter, and he sat down on the bench and took her hand again. 'I 'll show you the letter,' he said suddenly, and brought the sheet of notepaper out of his pocket.