A dozen letters were written and burnt in the fireplace of her bedroom before Leslie composed the one that was eventually placed in an envelope and addressed to “Fabrian Gilder, Esq., 35, Regency Mansions, London.” She had written: Dear Mr. Gilder: I agree to your terms. The money or equivalent shares must be deposited in the Horsham branch of the Southern & Midland Bank, in the name of Leslie Gilder, so that I may have control of the account from the moment I am married. I do not expect you to trust the word of one of my family, and I presume that you will wish the marriage to take place in the next few days. Will you please make arrangements for the ceremony, and tell me when and where I am to meet you? I expect it to be at a registrar’s office by special license. I can only say that, although this marriage is not of my seeking, you may trust me to be a loyal wife. Very sincerely, Leslie Gwyn. The last post was collected by a motor-cyclist postman at ten o’clock from a little wall box not a hundred yards from the house. There was an earlier collection, but somehow she could not bring herself to post the letter until the very last moment. Ten o’clock was an unusually late hour for a country collection, but it was the last box on the postman’s route and was an especially convenient arrangement, not only for the inhabitants of Fossaway Manor, but for the tenant farmers who wished to notify their daily consignments. She saw Arthur at dinner after the letter was written, but beyond the exchange of a few commonplaces they did not speak. He went back to his study, carrying his coffee with him, and she was left alone to the contemplation of the dark future. She wished she had seen Dick before she wrote, but it was too late now. Gilder had asked her to give him his answer that night, and she had promised. What would Dick say? She screwed up her eyes tightly as though to hide the vision of him, and her lips trembled. “No weakness, Danton!” It was a favourite quotation of her childhood, and had been the slogan at all moments when tears were near at hand. She took the letter from her bag and looked at it. Stamped, addressed, she had but to drop this into the little letter box, and thereafter the angle of life was twisted to a new prospect: the bleakest, dreariest prospect that any woman had faced. And it had to be done. The hands of the clock moved slowly and inexorably round. Nine o’clock--a quarter after--twenty minutes before ten; she set her teeth and got up from the little table where she had been trying in vain to concentrate her mind upon a game of patience, went upstairs and put on her hat and coat, and, with the letter tightly gripped in her hand, stole down across the hall, opened the door, and went out.