’You twopenny scoundrel!  What do you mean by dogging a professional man’s footsteps in this way?  I’ll break every bone in your skin if you attempt to track me, like a beastly cur sniffing at one’s pocket.  Do you think a gentleman will make his way home any the better for having the scent of your blacking-bottle thrust up his nostrils?’

Boots slunk back, in more amusement than ill-humour, thinking the lawyer’s ‘rum talk’ was doubtless part and parcel of his professional ability; and Mr. Dempster pursued his slow way alone.

His house lay in Orchard Street, which opened on the prettiest outskirt of the town—­the church, the parsonage, and a long stretch of green fields.  It was an old-fashioned house, with an overhanging upper storey; outside, it had a face of rough stucco, and casement windows with green frames and shutters; inside, it was full of long passages, and rooms with low ceilings.  There was a large heavy knocker on the green door, and though Mr. Dempster carried a latch-key, he sometimes chose to use the knocker.  He chose to do so now.  The thunder resounded through Orchard Street, and, after a single minute, there was a second clap louder than the first.  Another minute, and still the door was not opened; whereupon Mr. Dempster, muttering, took out his latch-key, and, with less difficulty than might have been expected, thrust it into the door.  When he opened the door the passage was dark.

‘Janet!’ in the loudest rasping tone, was the next sound that rang through the house.

‘Janet!’ again—­before a slow step was heard on the stairs, and a distant light began to flicker on the wall of the passage.

‘Curse you! you creeping idiot!  Come faster, can’t you?’

Yet a few seconds, and the figure of a tall woman, holding aslant a heavy-plated drawing-room candlestick, appeared at the turning of the passage that led to the broader entrance.

She had on a light dress which sat loosely about her figure, but did not disguise its liberal, graceful outline.  A heavy mass of straight jet-black hair had escaped from its fastening, and hung over her shoulders.  Her grandly-cut features, pale with the natural paleness of a brunette, had premature lines about them, telling that the years had been lengthened by sorrow, and the delicately-curved nostril, which seemed made to quiver with the proud consciousness of power and beauty, must have quivered to the heart-piercing griefs which had given that worn look to the corners of the mouth.  Her wide open black eyes had a strangely fixed, sightless gaze, as she paused at the turning, and stood silent before her husband.

‘I’ll teach you to keep me waiting in the dark, you pale staring fool!’ he said, advancing with his slow drunken step.  ’What, you’ve been drinking again, have you?  I’ll beat you into your senses.’

He laid his hand with a firm grip on her shoulder, turned her round, and pushed her slowly before him along the passage and through the dining-room door, which stood open on their left hand.