Anyhow, he had let her go. Her mad outburst had borne fruit--her revolt had been entirely successful. She was off, without him, going to London, going to Pansy. Her return to bondage lay in the future, dim and misty, not worth troubling about as yet. There were other far weightier matters to occupy her. Before they had traversed ten miles she had forgotten Gaunt, almost as though he did not exist. He, poor wretch, having made his sacrifice, stood a moment with arms tightly folded, wishing he had not been so altruistic. His eyes followed the train till it disappeared, then he turned, and went haltingly out of the station, back to the empty motor. He muttered something to himself as he opened the door. "We shall see." "Did you speak, sir?" said the chauffeur. "No, no! I didn't say anything. Home, of course." "Yes, sir." The Silent Knight sped on, and was engulfed in the darkness, now completely fallen. Gaunt of Omberleigh sat down in the place which his wife had lately occupied. His body was there in the motor; his heart, his mind, all that was in him, was following her upon her journey. He leaned forward, gazing upon nothing, while in his fancy he recalled the whole of the late scene between them. Could he have done anything more? Could he have let her see?... But no. To do that--to utter any plea--would have deprived him of a wonderful opportunity. It was now in his power to prove her to the uttermost. He had let her go. She had plenty of money, and still more credit. She was going to her own people, to her selfish, worldly mother, to her little sister's love and devotion. It was not to be supposed that, once back in their midst, she could refrain from telling her family some part at least of what she had been made to suffer. Doubtless it would all be poured out. Every kind of influence would then be brought to bear upon her in order to shake her allegiance. It would be pointed out to her that he was probably mad, a person whose morbid tendencies must not be encouraged. She would be told that it was her duty not to return to him. A hundred arguments were ready to hand. As he faced the situation, he suddenly felt that it was too hard a test which he had set her. Brave she was; single-minded he had found her; honest she seemed, but if, in face of argument, in face of influence, in face of love, in spite of fear, in spite of dreadful apprehension of punishment, she returned to what she still believed to be a state of slavery and subjection, of captivity and surveillance, then, indeed, she was a paragon, a pearl of such price as he was not worthy to possess. It was too much to hope for! She was gone, and she would never return. The scandal and the tragedy of his marriage would be in every one's mouth in a very few weeks' time. He had let her go. Why?