believe it when my lady’s maid first told me so—­ but I have seen enough since to satisfy me that she was right.  I have seen other things besides, which—­well! which don’t increase my respect for my lady and the Baron.  The maid says she means to give warning to leave.  She is a respectable British female, and doesn’t take things quite so easily as I do.  It is a dull life here.  No going into company—­no company at home—­not a creature sees my lord—­ not even the consul, or the banker.  When he goes out, he goes alone, and generally towards nightfall.  Indoors, he shuts himself up in his own room with his books, and sees as little of his wife and the Baron as possible.  I fancy things are coming to a crisis here.  If my lord’s suspicions are once awakened, the consequences will be terrible.  Under certain provocations, the noble Montbarry is a man who would stick at nothing.  However, the pay is good—­ and I can’t afford to talk of leaving the place, like my lady’s maid.’

Agnes handed back the letters—­so suggestive of the penalty paid already for his own infatuation by the man who had deserted her!—­ with feelings of shame and distress, which made her no fit counsellor for the helpless woman who depended on her advice.

‘The one thing I can suggest,’ she said, after first speaking some kind words of comfort and hope, ’is that we should consult a person of greater experience than ours.  Suppose I write and ask my lawyer (who is also my friend and trustee) to come and advise us to-morrow after his business hours?’

Emily eagerly and gratefully accepted the suggestion.  An hour was arranged for the meeting on the next day; the correspondence was left under the care of Agnes; and the courier’s wife took her leave.

Weary and heartsick, Agnes lay down on the sofa, to rest and compose herself.  The careful nurse brought in a reviving cup of tea.  Her quaint gossip about herself and her occupations while Agnes had been away, acted as a relief to her mistress’s overburdened mind.  They were still talking quietly, when they were startled by a loud knock at the house door.  Hurried footsteps ascended the stairs.  The door of the sitting-room was thrown open violently; the courier’s wife rushed in like a mad woman.  ’He’s dead!  They’ve murdered him!’ Those wild words were all she could say.  She dropped on her knees at the foot of the sofa—­held out her hand with something clasped in it—­and fell back in a swoon.

The nurse, signing to Agnes to open the window, took the necessary measures to restore the fainting woman.  ‘What’s this?’ she exclaimed.  ‘Here’s a letter in her hand.  See what it is, Miss.’

The open envelope was addressed (evidently in a feigned hand-writing) to ‘Mrs. Ferrari.’  The post-mark was ‘Venice.’  The contents of the envelope were a sheet of foreign note-paper, and a folded enclosure.

On the note-paper, one line only was written.  It was again in a feigned handwriting, and it contained these words: