Mr. Vimpany was back again. What should she do? What would Iris do? What would Mr. Mountjoy do? She read the letter again. Two things were obvious: first, that he had no clue of the restitution; and, next, that he had no idea of the evidence against him for the murder of the Dane. She resolved to communicate the latter fact only. She was braver now than she had been formerly. She saw more clearly that the way of the wicked man is not always so easy for him. If he knew that his crime could be brought home to him; that he would certainly be charged with murder if he dared to show himself, or if he asked for money, he would desist. Before such a danger the most hardened villain would shrink. She also understood that it was desirable to hide from him the nature of the evidence and the name of the only witness against him. She would calmly tell him what would happen, and bid him begone, or take the consequences. Yet even if he were driven off he would return. She would live henceforth in continual apprehension of his return. Her tranquillity was gone. Heavens! That a man should have such power over the lives of others! She passed the most wretched day of her whole life. She saw in anticipation the happiness of that household broken up. She pictured his coming, but she could not picture his departure. For she had never seen him baffled and defeated. He would come in, big, burly, with his farmer-like manner confident, bullying, masterful. He would ask her what she had done; he would swear at her when he learned that she had done nothing; he would throw himself into the most comfortable chair, stretch out his legs, and order her to go and fetch Mr. Mountjoy. Would she be subdued by him as of old? Would she find the courage to stand up to him? For the sake of Iris--yes. For the sake of the man who had been so kind to her--yes. In the evening, the two women--Mrs. Vimpany and Fanny--were seated in the housekeeper's room. Both had work in their laps: neither was doing any work. The autumnal day had been boisterous; the wind was getting higher. "What are you thinking of?" asked Fanny. "I was thinking of my husband. If he were to come back, Fanny--if he were to threaten--" "You would loose my tongue--you would let me speak?" "Yes; for her sake. I would have shielded him once---if I could. But not now. I know, at last, that there is no single good thing left in him." "You have heard from him. I saw the letter this morning, in the box. I knew the handwriting. I have been waiting for you to speak." "Hush! Yes, Fanny; I have heard from him. He wants money. He will come here to-morrow morning, and will threaten Mr. Mountjoy. Keep your mistress in her own room. Persuade her to lie in bed--anything." "He does not know what I have seen. Charge him with the murder of the Dane. Tell him," said Fanny, her lips stiffening, "that if he dares to come again--if he does not go away--he shall be arrested for murder. I will keep silence no longer!"