“Dear Lady Lucy!”

She looked up.  Sir James Chide stood beside her.

The first thing he did was to draw her to her feet, and then to move her chair into the shade.

“You have lost more than any of us,” he said, as she sank back into it, and, holding out his hand, he took hers into his warm compassionate clasp.  He had never thought that she behaved well to Ferrier, and he knew that she had behaved vilely to Diana; but his heart melted within him at the sight of a woman—­and a gray-haired woman—­in grief.

“I hear you found Broadstone’s letter?” He glanced at it on her lap.  “I too have heard from him.  The messenger, as soon as he knew I was here, produced a letter for me that he was to have taken on to Lytchett.  It is a nice letter—­a very nice letter, as far as that goes.  Broadstone wanted me to use my influence—­with John—­described his difficulties—­”

Chide’s hand suddenly clinched on his knee.

“—­If I could only get at that creature, Lord Philip!”

“You think it was the shock—­killed him?” The hard slow tears had begun again to drop upon her dress.

“Oh! he has been an ill man since May,” said Chide, evasively.  “No doubt there has been heart mischief—­unsuspected—­for a long time.  The doctors will know—­presently.  Poor Broadstone!—­it will nearly kill him too.”

She held out the letter to him.

“You are to read it;” and then, in broken tones, pointing:  “look! he said so.”

He started as he saw the writing on the back, and again his hand pressed hers kindly.

“He felt ill,” she said, brokenly; “he foresaw it.  Those are his last words—­his precious last words.”

She hid her face.  As Chide gave it back to her, his brow and lip had settled into the look which made him so formidable in court.  He looked round him abruptly.

“Where is the Herald?  I hear Mrs. Colwood brought it out.”

He searched the grass in vain, and the chairs.  Lady Lucy was silent.  Presently she rose feebly.

“When—­when will they take him away?”

“Directly.  The ambulance is coming—­I shall go with him.  Take my arm.”  She leaned on him heavily, and as they approached the house they saw two figures step out of it—­Marsham and Diana.

Diana came quickly, in her light white dress.  Her eyes were red, but she was quite composed.  Chide looked at her with tenderness.  In the two hours which had passed since the tragedy she had been the help and the support of everybody, writing, giving directions, making arrangements, under his own guidance, while keeping herself entirely in the background.  No parade of grief, no interference with himself or the doctors; but once, as he sat by the body in the darkened room, he was conscious of her coming in, of her kneeling for a little while at the dead man’s side, of her soft, stifled weeping.  He had not said a word to her, nor she to him.  They understood each other.