’"There will be plenty of opportunity for me to explain the few facts relating to my escape on the night of the fire.  I will only give the heads in this hurried note.  I was grieved at your not coming to fetch me, more grieved at your absence from the station, most of all by your absence from home.  On my journey to the inn I writhed under a passionate sense of wrong done me.  When I had been shown to my room I waited and hoped for you till the landlord had gone upstairs to bed.  I still found that you did not come, and then I finally made up my mind to leave.  I had half undressed, but I put on my things again, forgetting my watch (and I suppose dropping my keys, though I am not sure where) in my hurry, and slipped out of the house.  The—­“’

‘Well, that’s a rum story,’ said Mr. Dickson, interrupting.

‘What’s a rum story?’ said Manston hastily, and flushing in the face.

‘Forgetting her watch and dropping her keys in her hurry.’

’I don’t see anything particularly wonderful in it.  Any woman might do such a thing.’

’Any woman might if escaping from fire or shipwreck, or any such immediate danger.  But it seems incomprehensible to me that any woman in her senses, who quietly decides to leave a house, should be so forgetful.’

’All that is required to reconcile your seeming with her facts is to assume that she was not in her senses, for that’s what she did plainly, or how could the things have been found there?  Besides, she’s truthful enough.’  He spoke eagerly and peremptorily.

‘Yes, yes, I know that.  I merely meant that it seemed rather odd.’

‘O yes.’  Manston read on:—­

’”—­and slipped out of the house.  The rubbish-heap was burning up brightly, but the thought that the house was in danger did not strike me; I did not consider that it might be thatched.

’"I idled in the lane behind the wood till the last down-train had come in, not being in a mood to face strangers.  Whilst I was there the fire broke out, and this perplexed me still more.  However, I was still determined not to stay in the place.  I went to the railway-station, which was now quiet, and inquired of the solitary man on duty there concerning the trains.  It was not till I had left the man that I saw the effect the fire might have on my history.  I considered also, though not in any detailed manner, that the event, by attracting the attention of the village to my former abode, might set people on my track should they doubt my death, and a sudden dread of having to go back again to Knapwater—­a place which had seemed inimical to me from first to last—­prompted me to run back and bribe the porter to secrecy.  I then walked on to Anglebury, lingering about the outskirts of the town till the morning train came in, when I proceeded by it to London, and then took these lodgings, where I have been supporting myself ever since by needlework, endeavouring to save enough money to pay my passage home to America, but making melancholy progress in my attempt.  However, all that is changed—­can I be otherwise than happy at it?  Of course not.  I am happy.  Tell me what I am to do, and believe me still to be your faithful wife, EUNICE.