’I have had nothing particular to tell you.  A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the Ospedale Internazionale at Naples.  It came of some monstrous follies there’s no need to speak of.  A new and valuable experience.  I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death.

’Even now, I am far from well.  This keeps me in low spirits.  The other day I was half decided to start for London.  I am miserably alone, want to see a friend.  What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital!  Proof how low I had sunk:  I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there—­never mind!

’I write hastily.  An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna.  Up there, I shall get my health back.  The people are of no account—­boarding-house acquaintances—­but they may lead to better.  I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.’

This was the eighteenth of November.  On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker.  The stamp was Austrian, the mark ‘Wien’.  From Peak, therefore.  But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner.

The envelope contained two sheets of paper.  The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 

’Ill again, and alone.  If I die, act for me.  Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.’

Beneath was added, ‘J.  E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.’

He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing.  Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him.  And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond Geehrter Herr, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes.  Ha!  One he had made out—­gestorben.

Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn.  This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive.  Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter.

He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna.  He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house.  In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants.  On the second day Mr. Peak died.  Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money.  The body was about to be interred.  Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter.  To whom should bills be sent?

The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode.

‘Dead, too, in exile!’ was his thought.  ‘Poor old fellow!’