That very day she set to work to pack her trunk, pausing at times to ask herself if she should, or should not, tell Lady Agnes that her lover was a murderer. Well she knew that Agnes would draw herself up in bitter scorn—would not deign even to listen to her—and yet it was wrong to let her go on in the belief that Marese Baskette was the soul of honour. Clearly it was her duty to warn Agnes of the terrible fate which hung over her—to warn her from accepting a hand stained with the blood of an innocent, unoffending man. One course was open to her, and upon that she finally decided—it was to leave a note for Agnes, enclosing Aymer’s letter. It was Agnes’ constant practice to go for a drive about three in the afternoon; Violet usually accompanied her. This day she feigned a headache, and as soon as the carriage was out of sight sent for the groom, and asked him to take her to the railway station. The man at once got the dog-cart ready, and in half an hour, with her trunk behind her, Violet was driving along the road. She would not look back—she would not take a last glance at that horrible place. The groom, in a respectful manner, hoped that Miss Waldron was not going to leave them—she had made herself liked by all the servants at The Towers. She said she must, and offered him a crown from her slender store. The man lifted his hat, but refused to take the money. This incident touched her deeply—she had forgotten that, in leaving The Towers, she might also leave hearts that loved her. The groom wished to stay and get her ticket, but she dismissed him, anxious that he should not know her destination. Two hours afterwards she alighted at a little station, or “road,” as it was called. “Belthrop Road” was two and a half miles from Belthrop village; but she got a boy to carry her trunk, and reached the place on foot just before dusk. On the outskirts of Belthrop dwelt an old woman who in her youth had lived at World’s End, and had carried Violet in her arms many and many a time. She married, and removed to her husband’s parish, and was now a widow. Astonished beyond measure, but also delighted, the honest old lady jumped at Violet’s proposal that she should be her lodger. The modest sum per week which Violet offered seemed in that outlying spot a mine of silver. Hannah Bond was only afraid lest her humble cottage should be too small—she had really good furniture for a cottage, having had many presents from the persons she had nursed, and particularly prided herself upon her feather beds. Here Violet found an asylum—quiet and retired, and yet not altogether uncomfortable. Her only fear was lest Aymer should be alarmed, and she tried to devise some means of assuring him of her safety, without letting him know her whereabouts.