Her littleness and her childishness made no appeal to his tender feelings. Their contrast with what she had done, with the way she had deceived and betrayed him, roused all his repulsion again, and with it came now a man's primitive fierce anger. It was impossible for him to pretend not to know. "Go away!" he said in a thick harsh whisper. "Go to bed--I don't want you. I want to be alone." Her eyes seemed to grow large; a fearful apprehension dawned in them. "What's the matter? What have I done?" she asked, trying to summon her wits, wondering at what point she was attacked. Already her thoughts were on Caylesham, but she did not yet see whence suspicion could have come. He gave her no clue. His eyes had fallen to the cheque again; he kept shuffling his legs about and fidgeting with his short stiff beard. "Ah," she cried suddenly, "you went to Harriet Courtland's to-day! Has she said something about me? John, you wouldn't believe what she said against me?" He made no answer. In truth she needed none. She knew Harriet Courtland, who had been her friend and in her confidence. It had not been considered safe to send Raymore, because Harriet would have taunted him about his erring son. She knew what Harriet, blind with rage, had found to taunt John Fanshaw with. She was hardly conscious of resentment against the traitor. It was all too hopeless for that, and it all seemed too inevitable. From the moment she had agreed to go to Caylesham for the money, her forebodings had told her that calamity would come. That was opening the grave. Now the dead bones had come to life. She felt as though she could not struggle against it--could not protest nor deny. She did not see how anybody could believe her denial. "Why haven't you gone? I told you to go. In God's name, go!" he growled threateningly. "Leave me alone, I tell you." She gathered her dressing-gown closer round her. She felt as though the cold struck through it to her body. She felt utterly prostrated--and, oh, so terribly, so helplessly sorry for poor old John! She hated leaving him alone, and wished there was somebody else there to console him. She made an advance towards him, holding out her hands. "Don't come here! Don't come near me!" he said in a low voice. She drew back; her eyes were on him and full of pity. Now the cheque came into her mind. "And that?" she whispered. "I think I shall kill you if you don't go," he said, with a sudden unsteadiness in his voice. "Oh, I'll go!" she murmured disconsolately. "I'll leave you alone." She put her hands up before her face and gave a choking sob. "It's all no use now." She began to walk across the room, her face covered in her hands, her dressing-gown trailing on the floor behind her. But when she had got half-way, she turned on him in a fit of weak petulance.