She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. She passed down the stairs and into the street. He put it carefully aside, resolved to defer the attempt till night. It has. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards.
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