But Mary Anne, weeping, beckoned to another woman who had come up with
the little procession, and they began their last offices.

'Let us go,' said the doctor, kindly, his hand on Isaac's shoulder,
'till they have done.'

At that moment Watson, throwing a last professional glance round the
room, perceived the piece of torn paper propped against the glass. Ah!
there was the letter. There was always a letter.

He walked forward, glanced at it and handed it to Isaac. Isaac drew his
hand across his brow in bewilderment, then seemed to recognise the
handwriting and thrust it into his pocket without a word.

Watson touched his arm.

'Don't you destroy it,' he said in warning; 'it'll be asked for at the
inquest.'

The men descended. Watson and the doctor departed.

John and Isaac were left alone in the kitchen. Isaac hung over the fire,
which had been piled up in the hope of restoring warmth to the drowned
woman. Suddenly he took out the letter and, bending his head to the
blaze, began to read it.

'Isaac, yer a cruel husband to me, an there's no way fer me but the way
I'm goin. I didn't mean no 'arm, not at first, but there, wot's the good
o' talkin. I can't bear the way as you speaks to me an looks at me, an