In another moment the door had opened and shut, and I was delivered from his evil presence. Even in that hour of intense anguish, I found strength enough to thank God that he was gone. But Ronald—my Ronald, whom I still loved with all the devotion of true womanhood and wifehood! That man, evil as he was, had spoken truth in saying that Ronald was utterly lost to me. The note that I still clasped tightly in my fingers was a proof of his cruel infidelity. I knew Ida Lorimer's handwriting; I had seen notes written by her to Marian Bailey; it was a peculiar hand, and I should have recognised it anywhere. There was not, in this case, the faintest possibility of a deception. As the door closed, I had sunk exhausted on the sofa; but now I rose, gaining fictitious strength from the resolution that I had rapidly formed. I would go away—away from London—back to my old home, and strive to earn a humble living among the people who had known me from my childhood. But before my plan was put into execution, there were certain things that must be done. Nurse had gone out soon after luncheon, and there was no one in the house who would take any notice of my doings. It was a positive relief to feel that my faithful old friend was absent; I dreaded any influence that might be exerted to turn me from my purpose. Although my temples ached and burned, and every pulse in my body throbbed violently, I carried on my preparations with unnatural calmness. First I filled my hand-bag with some indispensable things, assured myself that I had money enough for immediate wants, and then sat down to write my farewell to my husband. But this was the hardest part of my task. I wrote a line, and then paused, and let my glance wander round the room, until memories came thronging upon me thick and fast. Was there no way that might lead us back into our happy past? Must I go onward, along this terrible road to which an inexorable hand was pointing? For a moment or two I wavered in my purpose, and then I remembered Ida's letter. It was not I who was leaving Ronald, he had already left me. But my hand trembled sadly as I traced my parting words. They were simple and few; I wasted no time in useless reproaches, but frankly told him why I said good-bye. "An accident," I wrote, "has thrown into my hands a certain note written to you last night. The writer was Ida Lorimer; and I now know that you can no longer bear to live with me. Good-bye, Ronald; I have tried to make you happy, and miserably failed." I put my note into an envelope, addressed it, and placed it on the chimney-piece, where it would be sure to meet his eye. If he did not return to Chapel Place, it would only have been written in vain—that was all. Nothing mattered very much now.