“MY LORD,—­You will have received, I presume, a
communication addressed to you and intended for me.  The enclosed
speaks for itself.  I send it to you because it is my duty to do so. 
If I were a young man, though I am not of your class, I would kill
you.  But I am growing old, and my day is over.  All I ask of you is
never, under any circumstances, to let my wife know of her
mistake about the letters.  I do not wish to grieve her, or cause
her more suffering than you have already brought upon her. 
“Believe me,
“Yours faithfully,
“JOSIAH BROWN.”

Then he got down the Peerage and found the correct form of superscription he must place upon the envelope.

He folded the two letters, his own and Theodora’s, and, slipping them in, sealed the packet with his great seal which was graven with a deep J.B.  And lest he should change his mind, he rang the bell for the waiter, and had it despatched to the post at once—­to be sent by express.  If possible it must reach Lord Bracondale at the same time as the other letter—­Theodora’s letter to himself in the wrong envelope.

And then poor Josiah subsided into his chair again, and suffered and suffered.  He was conscious of nothing else—­just intense, overwhelming suffering.

When his secretary, from his office in the City, came in about luncheon-time to transact some important business, he was horrified and distressed to see the change in his patron; for Josiah looked crumpled and shrivelled and old.

“I caught a chill coming from Bessington last night,” he explained, “and I will send for Toplington to give me a draught if you will kindly touch the bell.”

Then he tried to concentrate his mind on his affairs and get through the day.  But the gray look kept growing and growing, and the secretary decided towards evening to suggest sending for Theodora.  Josiah, however, would not hear of this.  He was not ill, he said, it was merely a chill; he would be quite restored by a night’s rest, and Mrs. Brown would be with him, anyway, in the morning.  Of what use to alarm her unnecessarily.  But he had unfortunately mislaid her letter with the exact time of her train, so he had better telegraph to her before six o’clock to make sure.  He wrote it out himself.  Just: 

“Stupidly mislaid your letter.  What time did you say for the
carriage to meet your train? 
“JOSIAH.”

And about eight o’clock her reply came, and then he went to bed, wondering if he had reached the summit of human suffering or if there would be more to come.

XXIX

Late that night, in the old panelled library at Bracondale, Hector walked up and down.  He, too, was suffering, suffering intensely, his only grain of comfort being that he was alone.  His mother was away in the north with Anne, and he had the place to himself.  In his hand was Theodora’s letter.  As Josiah had calculated, knowing cross-country posts, both his and hers had arrived at the same time.