Adela hastened away.  An unspeakable loathing turned her heart.  She scarcely wondered, but pressed the parchment closer, and joyed in the thought that she would so soon be free of this tainted air.

She no longer hesitated to enter, and was fortunate enough to reach her room without meeting any one.  She locked the door, then unfolded the will and began to peruse it with care.

The testator devised the whole of his real estate to Hubert Eldon; to Hubert also he bequeathed his personal property, subject to certain charges.  These were—­first, the payment of a legacy of one thousand pounds to Mrs. Eldon; secondly, of a legacy of five hundred pounds to Mr. Yottle, the solicitor; thirdly, of an annuity of one hundred and seven pounds to the testator’s great-nephew, Richard Mutimer, such sum being the yearly product of a specified investment.  The annuity was to extend to the life of Richard’s widow, should he leave one; but power was given to the trustee to make over to Richard Mutimer, or to his widow, any part or the whole of the invested capital, if he felt satisfied that to do so would be for the annuitant’s benefit.  ’It is not my wish’—­these words followed the directions—­’to put the said Richard Mutimer above the need of supporting himself by honest work, but only to aid him to make use of the abilities which I understand he possesses, and to become a credit to the class to which he belongs.’

The executors were Hubert Eldon himself and the lawyer Mr. Yottle.

A man of the world brought face to face with startling revelations of this kind naturally turns at once to thought of technicalities, evasions, compromises.  Adela’s simpler mind fixed itself upon the plain sense of the will; that meant restitution to the uttermost farthing.  For more than two years Hubert Eldon had been kept out of his possessions; others had been using them, and lavishly.  Would it be possible for her husband to restore?  He must have expended great sums, and of his own he had not a penny.

Thought for herself came last.  Mutimer must abandon Wanley, and whither he went, thither must she go also.  Their income would be a hundred and seven pounds.  Her husband became once more a working man.  Doubtless he would return to London; their home would be a poor one, like that of ordinary working folk.

How would he bear it?  How would he take this from her?

Fear crept insidiously about her heart, though she fought to banish it.  It was a fear of the instinct, clinging to trifles in the memory, feeding upon tones, glances, the impressions of forgotten moments.  She was conscious that here at length was the crucial test of her husband’s nature, and in spite of every generous impulse she dreaded the issue.  To that dread she durst not abandon herself; to let it grow even for an instant cost her a sensation of faintness, a desire to flee for cover to those who would naturally protect her.  To give up all—­and