Editha approached and stooping to the ground, she groped in the mud until her hands encountered two or three pebbles.

She picked them up, then going close to the house, she threw these pebbles one by one against the half-closed shutter of the withdrawing-room.

The next moment, she heard the latch of the casement window being lifted from within, and anon the rickety shutter flew back with a thin creaking sound like that of an animal in pain.

The upper part of Sir Marmaduke’s figure appeared in the window embrasure, like a dark and massive silhouette against the yellowish light from within.  He stooped forward, seeming to peer into the darkness.

“Is that you, Editha?” he queried presently.

“Yes,” she replied.  “Open!”

She then waited a moment or two, whilst he closed both the shutter and the window, she standing the while on the stone step before the portico.  In the stillness she could hear him open the drawing-room door, then cross the hall and finally unbolt the heavy outer door.

She pushed past him over the threshold and went into the gloomy hall, pitch dark save for the flickering light of the candle which he held.  She waited until he had re-closed the door, then she stood quite still, confronting him, allowing him to look into her face, to read the expression of her eyes.

In order to do this he had raised the candle, his hand trembling perceptibly, and the feeble light quivered in his grasp, illumining her face at fitful intervals, creeping down her rigid shoulders and arms, as far as her hands, which were tightly clenched.  It danced upon his face too, lighting it with weird gleams and fitful sparks, showing the wild look in his eyes, the glitter almost of madness in the dilated pupils, the dark iris sharply outlined against the glassy orbs.  It licked the trembling lips and distorted mouth, the drawn nostrils and dank hair, almost alive with that nameless fear.

“You would denounce me?” he murmured, and the cry—­choked and toneless—­could scarce rise from the dry parched throat.

“Yes!” she said.

He uttered a violent curse.

“You devil ... you ...”

“You have time to go,” she said calmly, “’tis a long while ’twixt now and dawn.”

He understood.  She only would denounce him if he stayed.  She wished him no evil, only desired him out of her sight.  He tried to say something flippant, something cruel and sneering, but she stopped him with a peremptory gesture.

“Go!” she said, “or I might forget everything save that you killed my son.”

For a moment she thought that her life was in danger at his hands, so awful in its baffled rage was the expression of his face when he understood that indeed she knew everything.  She even at that moment longed that his cruel instincts should prompt him to kill her.  He could never succeed in hiding that crime and retributive justice would of a surety overtake him then, without any help from her.