Confused, partly by his numerous aliases, more by incapacity to conceive of such depth and complication of horror as were revealed by the idea, the perplexed thinker did not, for a while, admit to herself the possibility that the nameless vagabond may have been Clara’s living husband, instead of a mercenary villain who had secured surreptitiously the proofs of a marriage she wished the world to forget.  Having learned that she had wedded, a second time, in her maiden name, and that her antecedents were unsuspected in her present home, the thought of extorting a bribe to continued silence, from the wealthy lady of Ridgeley, would have occurred to any common rascal with more audacity than principle.  It was but a spark—­the merest point of light that showed her the verge of the precipice toward which one link after another of the chain of circumstantial evidence was dragging her.

Groping dizzily among her recollections of that Christmas night, there gleamed luridly upon her the vision of Mrs. Aylett’s strange smile, as she said, “It may be that his wife, if she were cognizant of his condition, would not lift a finger or take a step to save his life, or to prolong it for an hour!”

Then, in response to Mabel’s indignant reply—­the momentary passion darting from her hitherto languorous orbs, and vibrating in her accents, in adding—­“There are women in whose hearts the monument to departed affection is a hatred that can never die.”

If this man were a stranger, from whom she had nothing to fear, why her extraordinary agitation at seeing him, even imperfectly, through the window?  She must have known him well to recognize him in the darkness and at that fleeting glimpse.  Perhaps she had believed him dead, until then!  This would account for her clandestine visit to his chamber, to which Mrs. Sutton and her niece had gone, without effort at concealment; explain the rigid examination of his clothing ensuing upon her scrutiny of his features.

“I must be mad!” Mabel said, here, pressing her hand to her head.  “There does not live the woman, however wicked and hypocritical, who could sit at ease in the midst of ill-gotten luxury, on an inclement night, and talk smilingly of other things, if she suspected that one she had known, much less loved, lay dying in wretchedness and solitude so near her.”

The vagrant was some evil-disposed spy, whose person Clara knew, and whose intentions she had reason to dread were unfriendly.  Had she dared—­for she was daring—­to attempt this nefarious plot against the fair fame and happiness of an honorable gentleman, her family would not have become her accomplices.  They could not have blinded themselves to the perils of the enterprise, the extreme probabilities of detection, the consequences of Winston’s anger.  Herbert, at least, would have forbidden the unlawful deceit.  When his sister was wedded to Winston, he believed that her first husband was no longer in the land of the living—­as she must also have done.