Angela started as though she had been stung.

“Events have been too strong for me,” she murmured; “but all this is nothing but a form, a form that can now be forgotten.”

Again Lady Bellamy smiled as she answered,

“Oh, of course, Mrs. Caresfoot, nothing but a form.”

Angela’s eye fell upon the ring on her finger.  She tore it off.

“Take this back,” she said, “I have done with it.”

“A married woman must wear a ring, Mrs. Caresfoot.”

She hurled it upon the floor.

Just then George and Philip returned from a little back-room where they had been with the registrar, who still remained behind, to sign the certificate.  George advanced upon his wife with a dreadful smile on his features, removing the respirator as he came.  His object was to kiss her, but she divined it and caught her father by the arm.

“Father,” she said, “protect me from this man.”

“Protect you, Angela; why, he is your husband!”

“My husband!  Have you all agreed to drive me mad?”

Lady Bellamy saw that if something were not done quickly, there would be a shocking scene, which was the last thing she wanted, so she seized George and whispered in his ear, after which he followed her sulkily, turning round from time to time to look at Angela.

On her way from Roxham, Lady Bellamy stopped her carriage at the telegraph office and went in and wrote a telegram.

“I respect that woman, and she shall have her chance,” she said, as she re-read it previous to handing it to the clerk.

Three hours later Mildred Carr received the following message at Madeira: 

 “From A. B. to Mrs. Carr, Quinta Carr, Madeira: 

 “Angela C. married her cousin G. C. this morning.”

That night Lady Bellamy dined at Isleworth with George Caresfoot.  The dinner passed over in almost complete silence; George was evidently plunged in thought, and could not eat, though he drank a good deal.  Lady Bellamy ate and thought too.  After the servants had gone, she began to speak.

“I want my price, George,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I say.  You are now Angela Caresfoot’s husband; give me back those letters as you promised, I am impatient to break my chains.”  He hesitated.  “George,” she said, in a warning voice, “do not dare to play with me; I warn you that your power over me is not what it used to be.  Give me back those letters.  I have done your wicked work for you and will have my pay.”

“All right, Anne, and so you shall; when will you have them?”

“Now, this instant.”

“But I have not got my keys.”

“You forget your keys are on your watch-chain.”

“Ah, to be sure, so they are.  You won’t turn round on me when you get them, will you, Anne?”

“Why should I turn on you?  I wish to get the letters, and, if I can, to have done with you.”