“_I could have faced the horror of that exposure once--could have braved it, even, as your wife, Charles--you will forgive me--I know your loving generosity so well. But as the mother of your child I cannot face it. ... My falsehood lies like a blight upon his little gentle life; his sweet truth finds a stranger in his mother. Perhaps, when I am gone, by God’s mercy, he will recover, and live to forget me. When just now we were alone together, and I whispered to him that I was going, I am sure he stirred and gave a little sigh as if he were already conscious of something lifted--some load passing from him. Oh, Charles, how cruel, though I have deserved it! I think if you knew--all my tears and penitence in the life I am about to seek--that sin against the Lamb! ... do not distress yourself about me. I shall be secure in the fold. Someday, after my final abjuration of the world, I will let you know ... make what terms you can and will with my betrayer, for your own sake, for the sake of our darling, dear, not for mine. ... This cannot continue--its way is madness. There is no possible foreseeing a limit to his exactions, or to my robbing you. Now, knowing me fled, he will be anxious, perhaps, to come to terms. ... Richard will tell you--my shame is his, but not the right to avenge it. Keep him, with all the force of your persuasion, from that horrible thought. ... Oh, Charles, forgive me!_” His eyes had sought me again restlessly, as I read; and now, seeing me come to an end, he rose quickly and tremulously, and set to pacing up and down. “What the devil does it all mean, Gaskett? We must stop her--get her back somehow before it’s too late and the scandal’s out. Have you any idea where she can have gone?” “Give me time to think, sir. It is all very sad.” “Time, time!” he protested irritably. “It’s just that we want to foreclose on. While it passes, she--good God! you don’t think she’ll do herself any hurt, do you?” “I don’t think so, sir. You have her word. She’s seeking some asylum, from which she proposes writing to you by-and-by.” “And you know the reason?” “Yes. I think I may say I’m sure of it.” He stared at me, where I had risen by the desk. His usual scrupulous jauntiness was all slack and unstrung. I noticed with concern that the bow of his shepherd’s-plaid tie was twisted an inch out of its place. He looked as if he had been out for many nights on end. “It’s all deuced odd,” he said at last. “What devil’s abroad in the house of late? First you and your conundrums, and now this. Perhaps you’ll be telling me there’s some connection between the two.” “Yes; I shall tell you that.” “Ah!” “There is a very close connection, sir, as regards one person.” “What person?” “Mr Dalston.” The name obviously conveyed no meaning to him. He only pondered me, dumfoundered, fingering his lips.