'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.