It did not, however, happen.  Nothing happened.

And nothing happened when he came to the Abbey again to attend the real burial service—­except that he found how wrong he had been in supposing that the fear had reached its highest point.  He nearly fainted when he saw all those policemen—­the entire park seeming to be full of them, a blue helmet under every tree, a glittering line of buttons that stretched through the courtyards and right round the church.  Inside the church he said to himself, “They’ve got me now.  They’ll tap me on the shoulder as I come out.”

Standing in the open air again he wondered at the respite that had been allowed, and thought, “Yes, but that is always their way.  They never show their hand until they have collected all the evidence.  The detectives, who’ve been on my track from the word ‘go,’ prob’ly advised the relatives to accept the thing as an accident in order to hoodwink the murderer.  The tip was given to that coroner not to probe deep, because they weren’t ready yet with their case;” and it suddenly occurred to him that he had left deep footsteps in the wood, and that plaster casts had been made of all these impressions.

He looked across a gravestone in the crowded churchyard and saw a strange man who was staring at the ground.  A detective?  He believed that this man was watching his feet, measuring them, saying to himself, “Yes, those are the feet that will fit my plaster cast.”

After the funeral he began to grow calmer, and soon he was able to believe during long periods of each day that the most considerable risks were now over.

Then came news of the legacy to Mavis—­the cursed money that he hated, that threw him back into the earlier distress concerning his wife’s shame, that restored vividness to the thoughts which had faded in presence of the one overpowering thought of his own imminent peril.

But here again he was governed by what he had set before himself as his unfailing guide-post—­the necessity to conceal any motive for an act of vengeance.  What would people think if he refused the money?  It was a question not easy to answer, and the guide-post seemed to point in two opposite directions.  He was harassed by terrible doubt until he and Mavis went to see the solicitor at Old Manninglea.  During the conversation over there he assured himself that the solicitor saw nothing odd in the legacy, and made no guess at there having been an intrigue between Mavis and the benefactor; and further he ascertained that this was only one of several similar legacies.  All was clear then:  the guide-post pointed one way now:  they must take the money.

But this necessity shook Dale badly again.  It seemed as if the man so tightly put away in his lead coffin and stone vault was not done with yet.  It was as if one could never be free from his influence, as if, dead or alive, he exercised power over one.  Dale resisted such superstitious fancies in vain.  They upset him; and the fear returned, bigger than before.