“It is no use trying to intimidate me, Alfred,” she said; “it is too late. To-morrow I shall make another disposition of my property.” “No, you will not,” he said; “for I shall not let you out of my sight till you are dead, and you will be dead soon.” “You will gain nothing by that, Alfred. William Rammage also will make another disposition of his property to-morrow, for I told him of our marriage.” “No, he will not, Anne” and he looked at her with awful triumph—“for he is dead already.” “Dead already? You are trying to hoodwink me, Alfred; and if it is true it will not alter my intention or prevent me from carrying it out,” she answered, determined not to let him know that her promised wealth had vanished. There was a sound of footsteps, and then the back door closed. Aunt Anne quaked when she heard it, for she knew that Jane had gone home without coming to say the usual good-night. He heard it, too, and his tone altered in a moment. “You will have no chance of altering your intention, Anne,” he said, and went another step towards her. “Why?” she asked, with a fearless wink. “Because you shall not live to do it”—and he went still a little nearer; but she did not quail for a moment. “Do you hear?” and he showed his teeth while he spoke, “you shall not live to do it.” “And you think when I am dead that you will go and spend my money with the woman at Liphook?” “Yes,” he said; “I like her, and I loathe you.” He drew the word out as if he gloated over the sound of it, and an awful look came into his eyes again. “Heaven has frustrated your design,” she said. “Alfred, if you kill me you will gain nothing by it, and the law will punish you. William Rammage has burnt his will. He burnt it to-day before my eyes, when he heard that I had disgraced my family and my name by a marriage with you.” “Burnt it!” He clenched his hands, and struggled to control himself. “Then I shall go; I shall go—when it suits me. I only wanted your money. A young man does not marry an old woman for anything but money, Anne. You are loathsome—loathsome and unwholesome,” he repeated, watching the effect of every word upon her—“and I have loathed being with you. I shall go to the other woman. She is my wife; I like her—she is young, not old and loathsome like you. I only married you for the sake of your money.” Aunt Anne never moved an inch; she only watched him steadily, as slowly he brought out his sentences, pausing between each one. “You have kept me from her all these months,” he went on, concentrating himself on every word he said; “and now you have taken from me the money I deserved for being with you—for being with a wrinkled, withered old woman.” She did not move or speak. For a moment he showed his teeth again, then slowly lifted his hands.