At that moment an imperious knock sounded upon the outer door, and the little girl ran to answer it, leaving the door of our room open.  A voice which I knew well, a voice which made my heart stand still and my veins curdle, spoke in sharp loud tones in the hall.

“Is Mr. Foster come home yet?” were the words the terrible voice uttered, quite close to me it seemed; so close that I shrank back shivering as if every syllable struck a separate blow.  All my senses were awake:  I could hear every sound in the hall, each step that came nearer and nearer.  Was she about to enter the room where I was sitting?  She stood still for half a minute as if uncertain what to do.

“He is up stairs,” said the child’s voice.  “He told me he was ill when I opened the door for him.”

“Where is Mrs. Wilkinson?” she asked.

“She is here,” said the child, “but there’s a lady with her.”

Then the woman’s footsteps went on up the staircase.  I listened to them climbing up one step after another, my brain throbbing with each sound, and I heard a door opened and closed.  Mrs. Wilkinson had gone to the door, and looked out into the hall, as if expecting some other questions to be asked.  She had not seen my panic of despair.  I must get away before I lost the use of my senses, for I felt giddy and faint.

“I will send the child to you in a cab on Wednesday,” she said, as I stood up and made my way toward the hall; “you have not told me your address.”

I paused for a moment.  Dared I tell her my address?  Yet my money was paid, and if I did not I should lose both it and the refuge I had bought with it.  Besides, I should awaken suspicion and inquiry by silence.  It was a fearful risk to run; yet it seemed safer than a precipitous retreat.  I gave her my address, and saw her write it down on a slip of paper.

As I returned to my lodgings I grew calmer and more hopeful.  It was not likely that my husband would see the address, or even hear that any one like me had been at the house.  I did not suppose he would know the name of Martineau as my mother’s maiden name.  As far as I recollected, I had never spoken of her to him.  Moreover he was not a man to make himself at all pleasant and familiar with persons whom he looked upon as inferiors.  It was highly improbable that he would enter into any conversation with his landlady.  If that woman did so, all she would learn would be that a young lady, whose name was Martineau, had taken a situation as English teacher in a French school.  What could there be in that to make her think of me?

I tried to soothe and reassure myself with these reasonings, but I could not be quiet or at peace.  I watched all through the next day, listening to every sound in the house below; but no new terror assailed me.  The second night I was tranquil enough to sleep.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

LEAVING ENGLAND.