At once Sir Terence understood that, knowing him to be at work, the old servant had himself remained below in case his master should want anything before retiring.
Continuing to move without noise, Sir Terence entered his study, closed the door and crossed to his desk.

Wearily he dropped into the chair that stood before it, his face drawn and ghastly, his smouldering eyes staring vacantly ahead.

On the desk before him lay the letters that he had spent the past hours in writing--one to his wife; another to Tremayne; another to his brother in Ireland; and several others connected with his official duties, making provision for their uninterrupted continuance in the event of his not surviving the encounter.
Now it happened that amongst the latter there was one that was destined hereafter to play a considerable part; it was a note for the Commissary-General upon a matter that demanded immediate attention, and the only one of all those letters that need now survive.

It was marked "Most Urgent," and had been left by him for delivery first thing in the morning.

He pulled open a drawer and swept into it all the letters he had written save that one.
He locked that drawer; then unlocked another, and took thence a case of pistols.