Very long since Clem had shed tears, but she did so this day when there was no longer a possibility of doubting that Bob was dead.  She shut herself in her room and moaned like a wild beast in pain.  Joseph could not but observe, when he came home, that she was suffering in some extraordinary way.  When he spoke jestingly about it, she all but rushed upon him with her fists.  And in the same moment She determined that he should not escape, even if she had to murder him with her own hands.  From that day her constant occupation was searching the newspapers to get hints about poisons.  Doubtless it was as well for Joseph to be speedy in his preparations for departure.

She was present in the police-court when Jack Bartley came forward to be dealt with.  Against him she stored up hatred and the resolve of vengeance; if it were years before she had the opportunity, Jack should in the end pay for what he had done.

And now Joseph had played her the trick she anticipated; he had saved himself out of her clutches, and had carried off all his money with him.  She knew well enough what was meant by his saying that her mother would supply what she needed; very likely that he had made any such arrangement!  You should have heard the sterling vernacular in which Clem gave utterance to her feelings as soon as she had deciphered the mocking letter?

Without a minute’s delay she dressed and left the house.  Having a few shillings in her pocket, she took a cab at King’s Cross and bade the driver drive his hardest to Clerkenwell Close.  Up Pentonville Hill panted the bony horse, Clem swearing all the time because it could go no quicker.  But the top was reached; she shouted to the man to whip, whip?  By the time they pulled up at Mrs. Peckover’s house Clem herself perspired as profusely as the animal.

Mrs. Peckover was at breakfast, alone.

‘Read that, will you?  Read that?’ roared Clem, rushing upon her and dashing the letter in her face.

‘Why, you mad cat!’ cried her mother, starting up in anger.  ’What’s wrong with you now?’

‘Read that there letter!  That’s your doin’, that is!  Read it?  Read it!’

Half-frightened, Mrs. Peckover drew away from the table and managed to peruse Joseph’s writing.  Having come to the end, she burst into jeering laughter.

’He’s done it, has he?  He’s took his ’ook, has he? What did I tell you?  Don’t swear at me, or I’ll give you something to swear about—­ such languidge in a respectable ’ouse!  Ha, ha?  What did I tell you?  You wouldn’t take my way.  Oh no, you must go off and be independent. Serve you right!  Ha, ha! Serve you right!  You’ll get no pity from me.’

’You ’old your jaw, mother, or I’ll precious soon set my marks on your ugly old face!  What does he say there about you?  You’re to pay me money.  He’s made arrangements with you.  Don’t try to cheat me, or I’ll—­soon have a summons out against you.  The letter’s proof; it’s lawyer’s proof.  You try to cheat me and see.’