Philip hesitated a minute, and then led the way to his study.  The corpse had been laid upon the table just as it had been taken from the water; indeed, the wet still fell in heavy drops from the clothes on to the ground.  It was to be removed to Roxham that evening, to await the inquest on the morrow.  The shutters of the room had been closed, lest the light should strike too fiercely on the ghastly sight; but even in the twilight Lady Bellamy could discern every detail of its outline clearly marked by the wet patches on the sheet which was thrown loosely over it.  On a chair, by the side of the table, above the level of which its head rose, giving it the appearance of being in the act of climbing on to it, lay the carcass of the dog, its teeth still firmly set in the dead man’s arm.  They had been unable to unlock the savage grip without hacking its jaws asunder, and this it was not thought advisable to do till after the inquest.

At the door Philip paused, as though he did not mean to enter.

“Come in,” said Lady Bellamy; “surely you are not afraid of a dead man.”

“I fear the dead a great deal more than I do the living,” he muttered, but came in and shut the door.

As soon as her eyes had grown accustomed to the light, Lady Bellamy went up to the body, and, drawing off the sheet, gazed long and steadily at the mutilated face, on the lips of which the bloody froth still stood.

“I told him last night,” she said presently to Philip, “that we should never meet again alive, but I did not think to see him so soon like this.  Do you know that I once loved that thing, that shattered brain directed the only will to which I ever bowed?  But the love went out for ever last night, the chain snapped, and now I can look upon this sight without a single sigh or a regret, with nothing but loathing and disgust.  There lies the man who ruined me—­did you know it?  I do not care who knows it now—­ruined me with his eyes open, not caring anything about me; there lies the hard task-master whom I served through so many years, the villain who drove me against my will into this last crime which has thus brought its reward.  The dog gave him his just due; look, its teeth still hold him, as fast, perhaps, as the memories of his crimes will hold him where he has gone.  Regret him! sorrow for him! no, oh no!  I can curse him as he lies, villain, monster, devil that he was!”

She paused, and even in the dim light Philip could see her bosom heave and her great eyes flash with the fierceness of her excitement.

“You should not talk so of the dead,” he said.

“You are right,” she answered; “he has gone beyond the reach of my words, but the thought of all the misery I have suffered at his hands made me for a moment mad.  Cover it up again, the vile frame which held a viler soul; to the earth with the one, to undreamed of sorrow with the other, each to its appointed place.  How does it run?—­’The wages of sin is death.’  Yes, that is right.  He is dead; the blow fell first on him, that was right, and I am about to die; and you—­what will happen to you, the Judas of the plot, eh?  You do not think that you will enjoy your blood-money in peace, do you?”