In the momentary silence the door opened suddenly, and someone came in. In the subdued light afforded by the shaded lamp it was difficult to see more than that a dark figure had entered the room, and, crossing over to the further side, sat down against the heavy curtains that covered the window. Mrs. Blencarrow made the slightest movement of consciousness, not of surprise, at this interruption, which, indeed, scarcely was an interruption at all, being so instantaneous and so little remarked. She went on: ‘You have known me a long time; you will form your own opinion of what I am going to tell you; I will not excuse or explain.’ ‘Mrs. Blencarrow, I am not sure whether you have perceived that we are not alone.’ She cast a momentary glance at the new-comer, unnecessary, for she was well aware of him, and of his attitude, and every line of the dark shadow behind her. He sat bending forward, almost double, his elbows upon his knees, and his head in his hands. ‘It makes no difference,’ she said, with a slight impatience--‘no difference. Mr. Germaine, I sent for you to tell you--that it was true.’ ‘What!’ he cried. He had scarcely been listening, all his attention being directed with consternation, almost with stupefaction, on the appearance of the man who had come in--who sat there--who made no difference. The words did not strike him at all for the first moment, and then he started and cried in his astonishment, ‘What!’ as if she had struck him a blow. Mrs. Blencarrow looked at him fixedly and spoke slowly, being, indeed, forced to do so by a difficulty in enunciating the words. ‘The story you have heard is--true.’ The Vicar rose from his chair in the sudden shock and horror; he looked round him like a man stupefied, taking in slowly the whole scene--the woman who was not looking at him, but was gazing straight before her, with those spots of red excitement on her cheeks; the shadow of the man in the background, with face hidden, unsurprised. Mr. Germaine slowly received this astounding, inconceivable thought into his mind. ‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘I make no--explanations--no--excuses. The fact is enough,’ she said. The fact was enough; his mind refused to receive it, yet grasped it with the force of a catastrophe. He sat down helpless, without a word to say, with a wave of his hands to express his impotence, his incapacity even to think in face of a revelation so astounding and terrible; and for a full minute there was complete silence; neither of the three moved or spoke. The calm ticking of the clock took up the tale, as if the room had been vacant--time going on indifferent to all the downfalls and shame of humanity--with now and then a crackle from the glowing fire. She said at last, being the first, as a woman usually is, to be moved to impatience by the deadly silence, ‘It was not only to tell you--but to ask, what am I to do?’ ‘Mrs. Blencarrow--I have not a word--I--it is incredible.’