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There was silence in the room.  They could hear the sound of passing footsteps in the street.  He stood perfectly still on the spot where they had struck him dumb by the disclosure, supporting himself with his right hand laid on the head of a sofa near him.  The sisters drew back horror-struck into the furthest corner of the room.  His face turned them cold.  Through the mute misery which it had expressed at first, there appeared, slowly forcing its way to view, a look of deadly vengeance which froze them to the soul.  They whispered feverishly one to the other, without knowing what they were talking of, without hearing their own voices.  One of them said, “Ring the bell!” Another said, “Offer him something, he will faint.”  The third shuddered, and repeated, over and over again, “Why did we do it?  Why did we do it?”

He silenced them on the instant by speaking on his side.  He came on slowly, by a step at a time, with the big drops of agony falling slowly over his rugged face.  He said, in a hoarse whisper, “Write me down the name of the church—­there.”  He held out his open pocketbook to Amelia while he spoke.  She steadied herself, and wrote the address.  She tried to say a word to soften him.  The word died on her lips.  There was a light in his eyes as they looked at her which transfigured his face to something superhuman and devilish.  She turned away from him, shuddering.

He put the book back in his pocket, and passed his handkerchief over his face.  After a moment of indecision, he suddenly and swiftly stole out of the room, as if he was afraid of their calling somebody in, and stopping him.  At the door he turned round for a moment, and said, “You will hear how this ends.  I wish you good-morning.”

The door closed on him.  Left by themselves, they began to realize it.  They thought of the consequences when his back was turned and it was too late.

The Graybrookes!  Now he knew it, what would become of the Graybrookes?  What would he do when he got back?  Even at ordinary times—­when he was on his best behavior—­he was a rough man.  What would happen?  Oh, good God! what would happen when he and Natalie next stood face to face?  It was a lonely house—­Natalie had told them about it—­no neighbors near; nobody by to interfere but the weak old father and the maiden aunt.  Something ought to be done.  Some steps ought to be taken to warn them.  Advice—­who could give advice?  Who was the first person who ought to be told of what had happened?  Lady Winwood?  No! even at that crisis the sisters still shrank from their stepmother—­still hated her with the old hatred!  Not a word to her! They owed no duty to her! Who else could they appeal to?  To their father?  Yes!  There was the person to advise them.  In the meanwhile, silence toward their stepmother—­silence toward every one till their father came back!

They waited and waited.  One after another the precious hours, pregnant with the issues of life and death, followed each other on the dial.  Lady Winwood returned alone.  She had left her husband at the House of Lords.  Dinner-time came, and brought with it a note from his lordship.  There was a debate at the House.  Lady Winwood and his daughters were not to wait dinner for him.