The mechanic had seen her go in, and he waited outside, a few yards away.  Either she would soon reappear, or her not doing so would show that she had obtained admittance somewhere.  In the latter case, this workman of much curiosity and leisure had only to lurk about the staircase until she came forth again.  But this trial of patience was spared him.  He found that he had simply to follow the lady back to Herne Hill.  Acting on very suggestive instructions, it never occurred to the worthy man that the lady’s second visit was not to the same flat as in the former instance.

Monica was home again long before dinner-time.  When that hour arrived her husband had not yet come; the delay, no doubt, was somehow connected with his visit to Mr. Newdick.  But this went on.  At nine o’clock Monica still sat alone, hungry, yet scarce conscious of hunger owing to her miseries.  Widdowson had never behaved thus.  Another quarter of an hour and she heard the front door open.

He came to the drawing-room, where she sat waiting.

‘How late you are!  Are you alone?’

‘Yes, alone.’

‘You haven’t had dinner?’

‘No.’

He seemed to be in rather a gloomy mood, but Monica noticed nothing that alarmed her.  He was drawing nearer, his eyes on the ground.

‘Have you had bad news—­in the City?’

‘Yes, I have.’

Still he came nearer, and at length, when a yard or two away, raised his look to her face.

‘Have you been out this afternoon?’

She was prompted to a falsehood, but durst not utter it, so keenly was he regarding her.

‘Yes, I went to see Miss Barfoot.’

‘Liar!’

As the word burst from his lips, he sprang at her, clutched her dress at the throat, and flung her violently upon her knees.  A short cry of terror escaped her; then she was stricken dumb, with eyes starting and mouth open.  It was well that he held her by the garment and not by the neck, for his hand closed with murderous convulsion, and the desire of crushing out her life was for an instant all his consciousness.

‘Liar!’ again burst from him.  ’Day after day you have lied to me.  Liar!  Adultress!’

‘I am not!  I am not that!’

She clung upon his arms and strove to raise herself.  The bloodless lips, the choked voice, meant dread of him, but the distortion of her features was hatred and the will to resist.

’Not that?  What is your word worth?  The prostitute in the street is sooner to be believed.  She has the honesty to say what she is, but you—­Where were you yesterday when you were not at your sister’s?  Where were you this afternoon?’

She had nearly struggled to her feet; he thrust her down again, crushed her backwards until her head all but touched the floor.

‘Where were you?  Tell the truth, or you shall never speak again!’

‘Oh—­help! help!  He will kill me!’