“What do you mean?” asked Philip, nervously; her wild way frightened him.

“Mean! why, that you are the sorriest knave of all.  This man was at least led on to crime by passion; Bellamy entered into it to work out a secret revenge, poor fool; I acted because I couldn’t help myself at first, and then for the sake of the game itself, for when I take a thing in my hand, I will succeed.  But you, Philip Caresfoot, you sold your own flesh and blood for money or money’s worth, and you are the worst of all—­worse than George, for even a brutal love is a nobler thing than avarice like yours.  Well, as the sin is, so will the punishment be.”

“It is a lie!  I thought that he was dead.”

“You thought that Arthur Heigham was dead!—­then I read your thoughts very wrongly when we met upon the road on Christmas Day.  You wished to think that he was dead, but you did not think it.  Even now your conscience is making a coward of you, and, as you said just now, for you the silence of the dead is more terrible than the accusations of the living.  I know a little about you, Philip.  Do you not see shadows on your walls, and do not departed voices come to haunt you in your sleep?  I know you do, and I will tell you this—­the Things which you have suffered from at times shall henceforth be your continual companions.  If you can pray, pray with all your strength that your daughter may not die; for, if she does, her shadow will always be there to haunt you with the rest.  Why do you tremble so at the mere mention of a spirit?  Stand still, and I will show you one.  I can if I like.”

Philip could stand it no longer.  With a curse he burst out of the room.  Presently she followed him, and found him standing in front of the house, wiping the cold perspiration from his forehead.

“You accursed woman,” he said, “go, and never come near this house again!”

“I never shall come to this house again,” she answered.  “Ah, here is my carriage.  Good-bye, Philip Caresfoot.  You are a very wealthy man now—­worth I do not know how many thousands a year.  You have been singularly fortunate—­you have accomplished your ends.  Few people can do that.  May the accomplishment bring happiness with it!  If you wish it to do so, stifle your conscience, and do not let your superstitions affect you.  But, by the way, you know French, do you not?  Then here is a maxim that, in parting, I recommend to your attention—­it has some truth in it:  Il y a une page effrayante dans le livre des destinees humaines:  on y lit en tete ces mots ‘les desirs accomplis.’” And she was gone.

“I owed him a debt for tempting George on in that business,” thought Lady Bellamy to herself, as she rolled swiftly down the avenue of giant walnuts; “but I think that I have repaid it.  The thorn I have planted will fester in his flesh till he dies of the sore.  Superstition run wild in his weak mind will make the world a hell for him, and that is what I wish.”