Lydia wrote down the words and slowly the girl dictated. "_I do not know how I can write you this letter. I intended to tell you when I saw you the other day how miserable I was. Your suspicion hurt me less than your ignorance of the one vital event in my life which has now made living a burden. My money has brought no joy to me. I have met a man I love, but with whom I know a union is impossible. We are determined to die together--farewell--_" "You said she was going away," interrupted Lydia. "I know," Jean nodded. "Only she wants to give the impression----" "I see, I see," said Lydia. "Go on." "_Forgive me for the act I am committing, which you may think is the act of a coward, and try to think as well of me as you possibly can. Your friend----_" "I don't know whether to make her sign her name or put her initials," said Jean, pursing her lips. "What is her name?" "Laura Martin. Just put the initials L.M." "They're mine also," smiled Lydia. "What else?" "I don't think I'll do any more," said Jean. "I'm not a good dictator, am I? Though you're a wonderful amanuensis." She collected the papers tidily, put them in a little portfolio and tucked them under her arm. "Let us gamble the afternoon away," said Jean. "I want distraction." "But your story? Haven't you to send it off?" "I'm going to wrestle with it in secret, even if it breaks my wrist," said Jean brightly. She took the portfolio up to her room, locked the door and sorted over the pages. The page which held the farewell letter she put carefully aside. The remainder, including all that part of the story she had written on the previous night, she made into a bundle, and when Lydia had gone off with Marcus Stepney to swim, she carried the paper to a remote corner of the grounds and burnt it sheet by sheet. Again she examined the "letter," folded it and locked it in a drawer. Lydia, returning from her swim, was met by Jean half-way up the hill. "By the way, my dear, I wish you would give me Jack Glover's London address," she said as they went into the house. "Write it here. Here is a pencil." She pulled out an envelope from a stationery rack and Lydia, in all innocence, wrote as she requested. The envelope Jean carried upstairs, put into it the letter signed "L. M.," and sealed it down. Lydia Meredith was nearer to death at that moment than she had been on the afternoon when Mordon the chauffeur brought his big Fiat on to the pavement of Berkeley Street. Chapter XXIX It was in the evening of the next day that Lydia received a wire from Jack Glover. It was addressed from London and announced his arrival. "Doesn't it make you feel nice, Lydia," said Jean, when she saw the telegram, "to have a man in London looking after your interests--a sort of guardian angel--and another guardian angel prowling round your demesne at Cap Martin?" "You mean Jaggs? Have you seen him?"