“Oh, God!” cried the Premier, turning away his ashen face. “It's my daughter's!”
[CHAPTER XXIV
WESTERHAM'S WAY OUT]
Lord Penshurst was beside himself with grief, and clung to Westerham as a child might, weeping passionately in his arms. Rookley, with a miserable face, had slipped out of the room.
It was a quarter of an hour before Westerham succeeded in bringing Lord Penshurst back to a coherent frame of mind. Then he helped him to his room, and left him dazed and piteous on his bed.
Of the three men who had made the dread discovery Westerham was perhaps the hardest hit, but he walked back to the little box and its horrible contents with set lips and grim face.
It was not, however, without a little shudder that he lifted the lid and looked inside again. He had anticipated that such an awful token would not be sent unaccompanied by a message, and an examination of the box proved his conjecture right.
Tucked into the lid was a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out carefully, and was then able to read the following message:—