Mr. Godwin, with the candle flaring in his hand, passed hastily by her, too wrought by fear to regard either the ludicrous or incomprehensible side of Mrs. Butterby’s consternation; and so, going down the corridor away from the stairs, he comes to the door of the little back stairs, standing wide open, and seeming to bid him descend.  He goes quickly down, yet trembling with fear that he may find her at the bottom, broken by a fall; but all he discovers is the bolt drawn and the door ajar.  As he pushes it open a gust of wind blows out the light, and here he stood in the darkness, eager to be doing, yet knowing not which way to turn or how to act.

Clearly, his wife had gone out by this door, and so far this gave support to Simon’s statement that he knew where she was; and with this a flame was kindled within him that seemed to sear his very soul.  If Simon spoke truth in one particular, why should he lie in others?  Why had his wife refused to go with him to Hatfield?  Why had she bid no one come near her room?  Why had she gone forth by this secret stair, alone?  Then, cursing himself for the unnamed suspicion that could thus, though but for a moment, disfigure the fair image that he worshipped, he asked himself why his wife should not be free to follow a caprice.  But where was she?  Ever that question surged upwards in the tumult of his thoughts.  Where should he seek her?  Suddenly it struck him that I might help him to find her, and acting instantly upon this hope he made his way in breathless haste to the road, and so towards my lodge.

Ere he has gone a hundred yards, Simon steps out of the shadow, and stands before him like a shade in the dimness.

“I crave thy pardon, Master,” says he, humbly.  “I spoke like a fool in my passion.”

“If you will have my pardon, tell me where to find my wife; if not, stand aside,” answers Mr. Godwin.

“Wilt thee hear me speak for two minutes if I promise to tell thee where she is and suffer thee to find her how thee willst.  ’Twill save thee time.”

“Speak,” says Mr. Godwin.

“Thy wife is there,” says Simon, under his breath, pointing towards my house.  “She is revelling with Hopkins and Captain Evans,—­men that she did tramp the country with as vagabond players, ere the Spaniard taught them more profitable wickedness.  Knock at the door,—­which thee mayst be sure is fast,—­and while one holds thee in parley the rest will set the room in order, and find a plausible tale to hoodwink thee afresh.  Be guided by me, and thee shalt enter the house unknown to them, as I did an hour since, and there thee shalt know, of thine own senses, how thy wife doth profit by thy blindness.  If this truth be not proved, if thee canst then say that I have lied from malice, envy, and evil purpose, this knife,” says he, showing a blade in his hand, “this knife will I thrust into my own heart, though I stand the next instant before the Eternal Judge, my hands wet with my own blood, to answer for my crime.”