Anne wrote the orders and the note.  Once more the horrible slate appeared when she had done, between the writing paper and her eyes, with the hard lines of warning pitilessly traced on it.  “He has locked the gate.  When there’s a ring we are to come to him for the key.  He has written to a woman.  Name outside the letter, Mrs. Glenarm.  He has had more brandy.  Like my husband.  Mind yourself.”

The one way out of the high walls all round the cottage locked.  Friends forbidden to see her.  Solitary imprisonment, with her husband for a jailer.  Before she had been four-and-twenty hours in the cottage it had come to that.  And what was to follow?

She went back mechanically to the window.  The sight of the outer world, the occasional view of a passing vehicle, helped to sustain her.

The lad appeared in the front garden departing to perform his errand to London.  Geoffrey went with him to open the gate, and called after him, as he passed through it, “Don’t forget the books!”

The “books?” What “books?” Who wanted them?  The slightest thing now roused Anne’s suspicion.  For hours afterward the books haunted her mind.

He secured the gate and came back again.  He stopped under Anne’s window and called to her.  She showed herself.  “When you want air and exercise,” he said, “the back garden is at your own disposal.”  He put the key of the gate in his pocket and returned to the house.

After some hesitation Anne decided on taking him at his word.  In her state of suspense, to remain within the four walls of the bedroom was unendurable.  If some lurking snare lay hid under the fair-sounding proposal which Geoffrey had made, it was less repellent to her boldly to prove what it might be than to wait pondering over it with her mind in the dark.  She put on her hat and went down into the garden.  Nothing happened out of the common.  Wherever he was he never showed himself.  She wandered up and down, keeping on the side of the garden which was farthest from the dining-room window.  To a woman, escape from the place was simply impossible.  Setting out of the question the height of the walls, they were armed at the top with a thick setting of jagged broken glass.  A small back-door in the end wall (intended probably for the gardener’s use) was bolted and locked—­the key having been taken out.  There was not a house near.  The lands of the local growers of vegetables surrounded the garden on all sides.  In the nineteenth century, and in the immediate neighborhood of a great metropolis, Anne was as absolutely isolated from all contact with the humanity around her as if she lay in her grave.

After the lapse of half an hour the silence was broken by a noise of carriage wheels on the public road in front, and a ring at the bell.  Anne kept close to the cottage, at the back; determined, if a chance offered, on speaking to the visitor, whoever the visitor might be.

She heard voices in the dining-room through the open window—­Geoffrey’s voice and the voice of a woman.  Who was the woman?  Not Mrs. Glenarm, surely?  After a while the visitor’s voice was suddenly raised.  “Where is she?” it said.  “I wish to see her.”  Anne instantly advanced to the back-door of the house—­and found herself face to face with a lady who was a total stranger to her.