The shop had been closed, it was too late for rural customers, and wondering who it could be, she took up her candle and went to the door.

Timidly she pulled back the latch and peered out.  A gentleman stood on the threshold with his face towards the river.  At the sound of the opening door, he turned.  Down went the candle with a crash and splutter; up went the two hands to her face.

Mr. Jasper Vermont stood looking down at her with a cruel, amused smile for a moment; then in his soft, purring voice he said: 

“I’m afraid I’ve startled you, Miss—­Mrs. Ashford.  Pray let me recover the candle.  There that’s better.”  As he spoke he pushed past her into the dimly lighted shop.

“Quite startled, eh?” he continued blandly.  “Unwelcome visitor, I suppose?”

“No, no!” breathed the poor little woman, who at the moment resembled a sparrow in the clutches of a hawk, or a mouse beneath the paw of its enemy, the cat.  “No, no, I—­I am very glad to see you, sir.  Will you come in?”

At this faint welcome Mr. Vermont smiled still more.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lucy,” he said, “I think I will,” and he followed her into the spotless sitting-room.

Meanwhile, Jessica, at the first sound of a strange voice, and afraid of being sought for by Wilfer, had concealed herself at the back of the house.

Jasper looked round the room in mock admiration.

“What a delightful little place you have here,” he continued.  “Most charming!  Commerce and romance mingled together, I declare.  And now,” sinking into a seat and fixing his eyes upon the white, frightened face of his victim, “how is your husband, Mr. John Ashford?”

“Very well, sir,” faltered the miserable woman, praying with all her heart that John might not come home.

“And the children,” continued her persecutor; “two, are there not?  Pretty little dears!  I’m so fond of children, you know, Mrs. Lucy.  Quite a happy woman you must be.  A most comfortable little house, I never saw anything like it, excepting once, and that was at Canterbury.”

The poor woman, her worst fears realised, fell down on her knees, and turned up her white face piteously to the cruel, mocking one above her.

“Oh, sir, kind, good sir,” she implored, “spare me!  You will not, say you will not ruin me?  We are so happy; it will break his heart if he learns my secret.  He is so good.  The children!  Have pity on them at least, sir, and do not betray me.”

Jasper smiled, and Lucy became even more incoherent.

“Oh, sir,” she cried, the tears streaming down her white face unheeded.  “I was so young, so giddy and thoughtless, and that man was so wicked.  He tempted me.  Oh, Mr. Vermont, sir, I will pray every night for you as I pray for John and my little ones, if you will but spare me and keep my secret.”

She might just as well have prayed to the wooden table, as expect any mercy or pity from this man, to whom such abject misery was better than meat and drink.