Beatrice by H. Rider Haggard

Geoffrey reached Town a little before eleven o'clock that night-a haunted man-haunted for life by a vision of that face still lovely in death, floating alone upon the deep, and companioned only by the screaming mews-or perchance now sinking or sunk to an unfathomable grave. Well might such a vision haunt a man, the man whom alone of all men those cold lips had kissed, and for whose dear sake this dreadful thing was done.

He took a cab directing the driver to go to Bolton Street and to stop at his club as he passed. There might be letters for him there, he thought-something which would distract his mind a little. As it chanced there was a letter, marked "private," and a telegram; both had been delivered that evening, the porter said, the former about an hour ago by hand.