How could a little thing like she was be supposed to take the life of a big man? She had never meant to injure him, too--she had only meant to give him a good sleep, to rest him thoroughly--to deceive him, of course--to do a thing which she knew if he were aware of would break his heart; but to take his life, no, nothing was further from her thoughts. Nevertheless the deed was done. Oh, it was horrible, horrible--she hated being so close to the dead body. It was no longer Vincent, the man who would have protected her at the risk of his life, it was a hideous dead body. She would get away from it--she would creep up close to Rover. No wonder Rover hated the room; perhaps he saw the spirit of her husband. Oh, how frightened she was! What was the matter with her side?--why did her heart beat so strangely, galloping one, two, three, then pausing, then one, two, three again?--and the pain, the sick, awful pain. Yes, she knew--she was sick to death with terror. She got up presently from where she had been kneeling by her dead husband's side and staggered across to the fireplace. She tried wildly to think, but she found herself incapable of reasoning. Shivering violently, she approached the table, poured out a cup of the cocoa which was still hot, and managed to drink it off. The warm liquid revived her, and she felt a shade better and more capable of thought. Her one instinct now was to save herself. Vincent was dead--no one in all the world could bring him back to life, but, if possible, Hetty would so act that not a soul in all the country should suspect her. How could she make things safe? If it were known, known everywhere, that she was away from him when he died, then of course she would be safe. Yes, this fact must be known. Once she had saved the Squire, now the Squire must save her. It must be known everywhere that she had sought an interview with him--that at the time when Vincent died she was in the Squire's presence, shut up in the office with him, the door locked--she and the Squire alone together. This secret, which she would have fought to the death to keep to herself an hour ago, must now be blazoned abroad to a criticising world. The lesser danger to the Squire must be completely swallowed up in the greater danger to herself. She must hurry to him at once and get him to tell what he knew. Ah, yes, if he did this she would be safe--she remembered the right word at last, for she had heard the neighbors speak of it when it a celebrated trial was going on in Salisbury--she must prove an alibi--then it would be known that she had been absent from home when her husband died.