‘You are his wife?’

She, still kneeling, looked up into his face with pained astonishment.

‘His wife?  Oh no!  I am a stranger.’

The doctor showed surprise.

‘He was killed in your presence?’

‘He is dead—­really dead?’ she asked under her breath.  And, as she spoke, she laid her hand upon his arm.

’He must have been killed instantaneously.  Did the stone fall in the room?  Was it a stone?’

No one had searched for the missile.  The doctor discovered it not far away.  Whilst he was weighing it in his hand there came a knock at the door.  It was Mr. Westlake who entered.  He came and looked at the dead man, then, introducing himself, spoke a few words with the doctor.  Assured that there was no shadow of hope, he withdrew, having looked closely at Emma, who now stood a little apart, her hands held together before her.

The doctor departed a few moments later.  He had examined the wound on the girl’s face, and found that it was not serious.  As he was going, Emma said to him: 

‘Will you tell them to keep away—­all the people in the house?’

‘This is your own room?’

‘I live here with my sister.’

’I will ask them to respect your wish.  The body must stay here for the present, though.’

‘Oh yes, yes, I know.’

‘Is your sister at home?’

‘She will be soon.  Please tell them not to come here.’

She was alone again with the dead.  It cost her great efforts of mind to convince herself that Mutimer really had breathed his last; it seemed to her but a moment since she heard him speak, heard him laugh; was not a trace of the laugh even now discernible on his countenance?  How was it possible for life to vanish in this way?  She constantly touched him, spoke to him.  It was incredible that he should not be able to hear her.

Her love for him was immeasurable.  Bitterness she had long since overcome, and she had thought that love, too, was gone with it.  She had deceived herself.  Her heart, incredible as it may seem, had even known a kind of hope—­how else could she have borne the life which fate laid upon her?—­the hope that is one with love, that asks nothing of the reason, nor yields to reason’s contumely.  He had been smitten dead at the moment that she loved him dearest.

Her sister Kate came in.  She had been spending the day with friends in another part of London.  When just within the door she stopped and looked at the body nervously.

‘Emma!’ she said.  ’Why don’t you come downstairs?  Mrs. Lake’ll let us have her back room, and tea’s waiting for you.  I wonder how you can stay here.’

‘I can’t come.  I want to be alone, Kate.  Tell them not to come up.’

‘But you can’t stay here all night, child!’

’I can’t talk.  I want to be alone.  Perhaps I’ll come down before long.’

Kate withdrew and went to gossip with the people who were incessantly coming and going in the lower part of the house.  The opening and shutting. of the front door, the sound of voices, the hurrying feet upon the staircase, were audible enough to Emma.  She heard, too, the crowds that kept passing along the street, their shouts, their laughter, the voices of the policemen bidding them move on.  It was all a nightmare, from which she strove to awake.