She could not imagine herself to be in any sense necessary to him.  She had helped him with the estate in many ways, but she had done nothing that a trustworthy agent could not do, save, perhaps, in the matter of caring for the poorer tenants.  They would miss her, she told herself, but no one else.  It was very long since she had entertained any guests at the Manor.  Sir Giles had offended almost everyone who could ever have claimed the privilege of intimacy with him.  And people wondered openly that his wife still lived with him.  Well, they would not wonder much longer.

And when her life was at her own disposal what would she do with it?

There were many things she might do; as secretary, as companion, as music-teacher, as cook.  She knew she need not be at a loss.  And again the prospect of freedom from a yoke that galled her intolerably made her heart leap.

A slight sound in the passage brought her out of her reverie.  She glanced up.  It was probably Dimsdale.  She would give him the note to deliver to his master in the morning.  She crossed to the door and opened it.

The next instant, in amazement, she drew back.  On the threshold, face to face with her, stood her husband!

He did not give her time to speak, but pushed straight forward into the room as if in haste.  His face was white and purple in patches.  His eyes were narrowed and furtive.  There was something unspeakably evil in the way they avoided hers.  He carried his right hand behind him.

He began to speak at once in quick, staccato tones, with which she was utterly unfamiliar.

“So you think you are going to escape me, do you?  But you won’t!  No, not for all the Errols in the world!”

She did not answer him.  There was something so utterly unusual in this abrupt visitation that she knew not how to cope with it.  But he scarcely waited for an answer.  He swung the door behind him with a bang.

“Do you remember,” he said, his staccato tone merging into one of rising violence, “a promise I made to you the first time I caught that scoundrel making love to you?  I swore that if it happened again I’d thrash him.  Well, I’m a man who keeps his promises.  I’ve kept that one.  And now it’s your turn.  I thought at first I’d kill you.  But I fancy this will hurt you more.”

His hand shot suddenly out from behind him, and there followed the whistle of a thong—­the thick, leathern thong with which he kept his dogs in order.

It struck her as she stood before him, struck and curled about her shoulders with a searching, scalding agony that turned her sick, wringing from her a cry that would never have been uttered had she been prepared.

But before he could strike again she was ready to cope with his madness.  On the instant she sprang, not from him, but to him, clasping his arms with both of hers.

“Giles!” she said, and her voice rang clear and commanding.  “You are not yourself.  You don’t know what you are doing.  Look at me!  Do you hear?  Look at me!”