‘Madam,’ it ran.  ’You are in danger here, and I in no less of being held to account for acts which my heart abhors.  Openly to oppose myself to Mr. P.—­the course my soul dictates—­were dangerous for us both, and another must be found.  If he drink deep to-night, I will, heaven assisting, purloin the key, and release you at ten, or as soon after as may be.  Jarvey, who is honest, and fears the turn things are taking, will have a carriage waiting in the road.  Be ready, hide this, and when you are free, though I seek no return for services attended by much risk, yet if you desire to find one, an easy way may appear of requiting,

‘Madam, your devoted, obedient servant, F.T.’

Julia’s face glowed.  ’He cannot do even a kind act as it should be done,’ she thought.  ’But once away it will be easy to reward him.  At worst he shall tell me how I came to be set down here.’

She spent the rest of the day divided between anxiety on that point—­for Mr. Thomasson’s intervention went some way to weaken the theory she had built up with so much joy—­and impatience for night to come and put an end to her suspense.  She was now as much concerned to escape the ordeal of Mr. Pomeroy’s visit as she had been earlier in the day to see him.  And she had her wish.  He did not come; she fancied he might be willing to let the dullness and loneliness, the monotony and silence of her prison, work their effect on her mind.

Night, as welcome to-day as it had been yesterday unwelcome, fell at last, and hid the dingy familiar room, the worn furniture, the dusky outlook.  She counted the minutes, and before it was nine by the clock was the prey of impatience, thinking the time past and gone and the tutor a poor deceiver.  Ten was midnight to her; she hoped against hope, walking her narrow bounds in the darkness.  Eleven found her lying on her face on the floor, heaving dry sobs of despair, her hair dishevelled.  And then, on a sudden she sprang up; the key was grating in the lock!  While she stared, half demented, scarcely believing her happiness, Mr. Thomasson appeared on the threshold, his head—­he wore no wig—­muffled in a woman’s shawl, a shaded lanthorn in his hand.

‘Come!’ he said.  ‘There is not a moment to be lost.’

‘Oh!’ she cried hysterically, yet kept her shaking voice low; ’I thought you were not coming.  I thought it was all over.’

‘I am late,’ he answered nervously; his face was pale, his shifty eyes avoided hers.’  It is eleven o’clock, but I could not get the key before.  Follow me closely and silently, child; and in a few minutes you will be safe.’

‘Heaven bless you!’ she cried, weeping.  And would have taken his hand.