Lord Acorn nodded in silence. He knew why he was to be the recipient of the income, instead of Adela--that she might not have the means at her disposal to lose herself in future at Lady Sanely's. _That_ had been the leading source of this last dangerous episode. "I hope you will take care of her," cried Mr. Grubb, as he rose, and pressed Lord Acorn's hand in parting. "To the best of my power. Ah, Grubb I--I can't grumble, of course; no, neither at the step nor the proposed arrangements--but, if you _could_ but see your way to condone the past; to receive her back!" "Never again," was the quiet answer. "Darvy can attend to the removal of her things from Grosvenor Square." Mr. Grubb walked back to his own home with slow and thoughtful steps, his heart filled with the bitterness of disappointed hopes. It is no light matter for a man to part for ever with the wife of his bosom; to say to her, "Your road lies that way from henceforth; mine this." Especially a wife who had been loved as Francis Grubb had loved his. That Adela had run away from his home, abandoned it and him, he entertained not the slightest doubt. She had been tacitly demonstrating to him for years that she wished to be rid of him--indeed, not always tacitly--and now she had accomplished it. This impression did not lead to Mr. Grubb's decision to put her away; it had, and could have had, nothing to do with that: but it tended to deaden any small regret he may have felt. It was a wrong impression, however. Lady Adela had not run away from Grosvenor Square to be quit of her husband; she had left it under fear. When Frances Chenevix quitted her the night already told of, Tuesday, leaving her with the dread news that the magistrates would not release Charley, unless they produced the true culprit, herself, in his stead, Adela's worst fears were aroused. She passed a wretched night, now pacing her chamber, now tossing on her sleepless bed. She saw the matter now in its true colours, all its deadly peril, its shameful sin. Throwing herself on her knees, she raised her hands in prayerful agony, beseeching the Most High to spare them both--herself from exposure, the innocent young fellow, who had been made her tool, from punishment--and she took a solemn oath never again to be tempted to play. Whether the prayer soothed her spirit, or whether the natural reaction that follows upon violent emotion set in, certain it was that a sort of calm stole over Adela. Her head lay on the bed, her arms were outstretched, and by-and-by she slept. If, indeed, it could be called sleep. For she still seemed to be conscious of the peril that awaited her and a sort of dream, that was half reality, began weaving its threads in her brain.