There he read the letter under the gas-lamp, and put it deliberately into his pocket.
'Where is she ?' he asked.
'In Lambeth mortuary,' said the man briefly--'picked up two hours ago.

Nothing else found on her but this.' Half an hour afterwards Sandy stood by a slab in the mortuary, and, drawing back a sheet which covered the burden on it, stood face to face with his dead wife.

The black brows were drawn, the small hands clenched.

What struck Sandy with peculiar horror was that one delicate wrist was broken, having probably struck something in falling.

She--who in life had rebelled so hotly against the least shadow of physical pain! Thanks to the bandage which had been passed round it, the face was not much altered.