That same morning there came also a letter from Liverpool to Mrs. Joseph Snowdon, a letter which ran thus: 

’Clem, old girl, I regret very much that affairs of pressing importance call me away from my happy home.  It is especially distressing that this occurs just at the time when we were on the point of taking our house, in which we hoped to spend the rest of cur lives in bliss.  Alas, that is not to be!  Do not repine, and do not break the furniture in the lodgings, as your means will henceforth be limited, I fear.  You will remember that I was in your debt, with reference to a little affair which happened in Clerkenwell Close, not such a long time ago; please accept this intimation as payment in full.  When I am established in the country to which business summons me, I shall of course send for you immediately, but it may happen that some little time will intervene before I am able to take that delightful step.  In the meanwhile your mother will supply you with all the money you need; she has full authority from me to do so.  All blessings upon you, and may you be happy.—­With tears I sign myself,

‘YOUR BROKEN-HEARTED HUSBAND.’

Joseph’s absence through the night had all but prepared Clem for something of this kind, yet he had managed things so well that up to the time of his departure she had not been able to remark a single suspicious circumstance, unless, indeed, it were the joyous affectionateness with which he continued to behave, She herself had been passing through a time of excitement and even of suffering.  When she learned from the newspaper what fate had befallen Bob Hewett, it was as though someone had dealt her a half-stunning blow; in her fierce animal way she was attached to Bob, and for the first time in her life she knew a genuine grief.  The event seemed at first impossible; she sped hither and thither, making inquiries, and raged in her heart against everyone who confirmed the newspaper report.  Combined with the pain of loss was her disappointment at the frustration of the scheme Bob had undertaken in concert with her.  Brooding on her deadly purpose, she had come to regard it as a certain thing that before long her husband would be killed.  The details were arranged; all her cunning had gone to the contrivance of a plot for disguising the facts of his murder.  Savagely she had exulted in the prospect, not only of getting rid of him, but of being revenged for her old humiliation.  A thousand times she imagined herself in Bob’s lurking-place, raising the weapon, striking the murderous blow, rifling the man’s pockets to mislead those who found his body, and had laughed to herself triumphantly.  Joseph out of the way, the next thing was to remove Pennyloaf.  Oh, that would easily have been contrived.  Then she and Bob would have been married.