"I will get into the stables of some public-house. I pass for a tramp." There was a terrible earnestness in the simple statement, which did more to make Mary Goddard realise her husband's position than anything else could have done. To people who live in the country the word "tramp" means so much. "Poor Walter!" said Mrs. Goddard softly, and for the first time since she had seen him the tears stood in her eyes. "Don't waste your pity on me," he answered. "Let me be off." There was half a loaf and some cheese left upon the table. Mrs. Goddard put them together and offered them to him. "You had better take it," she said. He took the food readily enough and hid it under his frock. He knew the value of it. Then he got upon his feet. He moved painfully, for the cold and the wet had stiffened his limbs already weakened with hunger and exhaustion. "Let me be off," he said again, and moved towards the door. His wife followed him in silence. In the passage he paused again. "Well, Mary," he said, "I suppose I ought to be grateful to you for not giving me up to the police." "You know very well," answered Mrs. Goddard, "that what I can do to save you, I will do. You know that." "Then do it, and don't forget the money. It's hanging this time if I'm caught." Mrs. Goddard uttered a low cry and leaned against the wall. "What?" she faltered. "You have not--" "I believe I killed somebody in getting away," answered the felon with a grim laugh. Then, without her assistance, he opened the door and went out into the pouring rain. The door shut behind him and Mary Goddard heard his retreating footsteps on the path outside. When he was fairly gone she suddenly broke down, and falling upon her knees in the passage beat her forehead against the wall in an agony of despair.