he was afraid Mrs. Gibson would get hold of it, and never let me have it.  So he sent it by hand, with his love and blessing—­and Freddie was to say he was sorry you had left me so long, and he didn’t think it was a right thing for a man to do.  Never mind how much it was.  It’s my very own, and I’m glad it comes from my father, and not from you.  I have my embroidery money too, and I shall be all right—­though very, very miserable.  The idea of what I would do came into my head while I was talking with Freddie—­and since I came into this room, I have made up my mind.  I’m sorry I can’t set you free altogether.  There’s Carrie to think of, and I must live for her sake.  But at any rate you won’t have to look after me, or to feel that I’m disgracing you with the smart people who have taken you up—­

Don’t look for us, for you will never, never find us.

Good-bye, John.  Do you remember that night in the ghyll, and all the things we said?

I’ve spoiled your sketch—­I couldn’t help it—­and I’m not sorry—­not yet, anyway.  She has everything in the world, and I had nothing—­but you.  Why did you leave the lamps?—­just to mock at me?

Good-bye.  I have left my wedding-ring on this paper.  You’ll know I couldn’t do that, if I ever meant to come back!

She rose, and moved a small table in front of the ruined picture.  On it she placed, first, the parcel she had brought with her, which contained papers and small personal possessions belonging to her husband; in front of the packet she laid the five letters of Madame de Pastourelles, her own letter in an envelope addressed to him, and upon it her ring.

Then she put on her hat and veil, tying the veil closely round her face, and, with one last look round the room, she crept to the door and unlocked it.  So quietly did she descend the stairs that Mrs. Gibbs, who was listening sharply, with the kitchen door open, for any sound of her departure, heard nothing.  The outer door opened and shut without the smallest noise, and the slender, veiled figure was quickly lost in the darkness and the traffic of the street.

PART III

AFTER TWELVE YEARS

  ’Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
  Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.’

CHAPTER IX

’Quand vous arriverez au troisieme, monsieur, montez, montez toujours!  Vous trouverez un petit escalier tournant, en bois.  Ca vous conduira a l’atelier.’

Thus advised by the wife of the concierge, Fenwick crossed the courtyard of an old house in the Rue du Bac, looked up a moment at the sober and distinguished charm of its architecture, at the corniced, many-paned windows, so solidly framed and plentifully lined in white, upon the stone walls, and the high roof, with its lucarne windows just touched with classical decoration; each line and tint contributing to a seemly, restrained