He intended to commit suicide.  At first she had thought of all those London bridges, with the dark rivers swirling through their arches and eddying round their piers; then she became sure that he would not drown himself.  He was a vigorous swimmer—­such a death would be impossible to him.  No, he would poison himself, or shoot himself, or hang himself.  Perhaps even now it was all over.

In his presence it had seemed impossible to disobey him.  Whatever he commanded she must do.  But what pitiful weakness!  Why, with instinct prompting her, had she not resisted him, refused to let him leave her, stayed with him in spite of blows, and been there to snatch the cup or the rope from his hands, to thrust herself between the pistol and his body?

By day she recognized that her anxiety was unreasoning, based on her own emotions, or at least not logically derived from her knowledge of his character.  Of course he had taken the discovery of her secret far worse than she had ever conceived as possible, when timorously thinking of untoward hazards that one day or another might lead to disclosure.  But, even then, fully allowing for the effect of his extreme excitement, would he, so brave and self-reliant a creature, be guilty of an act that is in its essence cowardly?

She thought of his courage.  He was as brave a man as ever breathed, and yet you could not describe him as reckless or foolhardy.  He was wise enough to be chary of exposing himself to useless risks.  So much so that he had more than once surprised her by keeping quite calm when she had expected and dreaded perilous energy.  Especially she remembered a day out on the Manninglea road when a runaway horse with an empty cart came galloping toward them, and Dale, instead of attempting to stop it, put his arm round her waist and hastily drew her well out of the way.  In another hundred yards the runaway went crashing off the road, fell, and smashed the cart into smithereens.

“Tally-ho!  Gone to ground,” cried Dale cheerily.  “There’s a nice little bill for Mr. Baker to pay.”  And then he told her that one of the most dangerous things a pedestrian can do is to interfere with a bolting horse when there’s a vehicle behind it.  “Mind you,” he added, “I’d have had a try at bringing it to anchor if there’d been anybody in the cart.  That would have been another pair of shoes.  What you’re justified in doing for a fellow human being you aren’t justified in doing to save a few pounds, shillings and pence.”

She clung to this thought of his innate common sense.  And there was comfort and hope, too, in another thought.  He was a naturally religious man, if not an orthodoxly religious one.  The church service bored him; he only attended it from motives of policy; but, nevertheless, when you got him inside the sacred edifice, his behavior was perfect, and you could not watch him on his knees or hear him say “Christ have mercy upon us, O Lord Christ have mercy on us,” without being convinced that he did truly believe in an omnipotent God and the punishments or rewards that await us on the other side of the grave.  Surely the man who bowed his head like that at the name of Jesus would not, could not, be the man to take his own life merely because it had become an unhappy life.