“I trust and hope that if I die in to-morrow’s battle this will reach you safely.  I have really no fear whatever of the battle, and after it is over I shall have a good opportunity of putting this paper into a lawyer’s hands at Capetown.”

Then she hastily dropped the letter and took up a small paper that had been in the same envelope.  A glance at this showed that it was the “last will and testament of Sir David Bright.”

It was evidently not drawn up by a lawyer, but it seemed complete and had the two signatures of witnesses; Lord Groombridge and Sir Edmund Grosse were named as executors.  It was dated on board ship only a few weeks before Sir David Bright died.

At first Molly was simply bewildered.  She read, as if stupefied, the perfectly simple language in which Sir David had bequeathed all and everything he possessed to his wife, Lady Rose Bright, subject to an annual allowance of L1000 to Madame Danterre during her life-time.  It was so brief and simple that, if Molly had not known how simple a will could be, she might have half doubted its legality.  As it was she was not aware of the special facilities in the matter of will-making that are allowed to soldiers and sailors when on active service.  The absolutely amazing thing was that the paper should have been in Madame Danterre’s possession.

Molly turned to the letter, and read it with absorbed attention.

The General wrote on the eve of the battle, without the least anxiety as to the next day.  But he already surmised the vast proportions that the war might assume, and he intended to send the enclosed will with this letter to the care of a lawyer in Capetown for fear of eventualities.  Then, next day, as Molly knew, he had been killed.

But Molly did not know that to the brother officer who had been with him in his last moments Sir David had confided two plain envelopes, and had told him to send the first—­a blue one—­to his wife, and the second—­a white one—­to Madame Danterre, faintly murmuring the names and addresses in his dying voice.  The same officer was himself killed a week later.  If he had lived and had learned the disposal of Sir David’s fortune, it might possibly have occurred to him that he had put the addresses on the wrong letters.  But he was sure at the time that Sir David’s last words had been:  “Remember, the white one for my wife.”  And perhaps he was right, for it is not uncommon for a man even in the full possession of all his faculties (which Sir David was not) to make a mistake just because of his intense anxiety to avoid making it.  As it was, knowing nothing whatever of the circumstances, the will and the letter seemed to Molly to come out of a mysterious void.