Mohun took the note from his hand without his seeming to be aware of it, and read it through.  These were the words: 

“I have tried very hard to persuade myself that you never received the letter I wrote to you two months ago.  I think you would have answered it, for you would know how much I must have suffered before my pride broke down so utterly.  Yet I could not have risked being scorned a second time if I had not learned yesterday that my life must now be reckoned by weeks, if not by days.  I do not know if I shall be allowed to see you if you come.  But you will come; will you not?  Dear, dear Guy, I can not die as I ought to do, contentedly, unless I speak to you once again.  In spite of all, I will sign my last letter

     “Your own CONSTANCE BRANDON.”

It was dated Ventnor.

Hard and cynical as he was, Mohun was thoroughly shocked and grieved; but the urgency of the crisis brought back the prompt decision of thought and purpose that were habitual to the trained soldier.  He sprang to his feet, alert and ready for action, as he would have done in the old times, from his bivouac, to meet a night-surprise of the wild Hungarians.

“Get every thing ready,” he said to the servant, who entered at that moment; “your master is going to England immediately.  The train starts for Havre at two o’clock.  You will catch the night-boat for Southampton.”

When the man had left the room he turned to Guy:  “Rouse yourself, man!  There is all a lifetime for remorse, but only a few hours for the little amends you can make.  You will be at Ventnor to-morrow; and mind—­you must see her, whatever difficulties may be thrown in your way.  You won’t lose your temper if you meet her brother?  Ah!  I see you are not listening.”

Then Livingstone spoke for the first time, in a hoarse, grating whisper, articulating the words one by one with difficulty.

“I never dreamed of this.  I did not mean to kill her.”

Mohun knew his friend too well to attempt consolation or sympathy, even if these had not been foreign to his own nature; so he answered deliberately and coldly,

“Of having brought bitter sorrow on Constance Brandon I do hold you guilty; of having caused her death, not, and so you will find when you know all.  But her note of two months ago—­of course you never saw it?  You must have overlooked it; you are so careless with your papers.”

“It never reached me,” Livingstone replied.  “I have always looked at the outside of my letters, and I should have known that handwriting among ten thousand.  Some one must have intercepted it.  I wish I knew who.”  He was recovering from the first stunning effects of the shock, and the old angry light came back into his eyes.

“I will find out when you are gone,” said Mohun.  “You have not a moment to spare.  I won’t ask you to write; I will join you in England in three days.  Only remember one thing—­keep cool.  Yes, I know what you mean; but your patience may be tried more than you have any idea of.”  He was thinking of Cyril Brandon.