Escape. . . . That checked her thoughts. Escape. She started up, looking at the clock. Her knees were trembling. Suppose he returned suddenly? Before she had had time to go. To go. Right away. Alone. Leaving all this horror behind. Only she must be quick. What was it Stephen had said?—“You shall yield or you shall be made to yield. I mean that.” If she had found it hard to bear him before when he was gentle, how much harder would it be now that he was angry and a stranger?

She straightened her hair. It would not do to let the servants see her panic. She must be calm. Not let them suspect.

Jenkins was polishing the brass-work on the car. How surprised he looked! but respectful, sympathetic. He was sorry madam had had bad news. Yes, if madam could be ready at once he thought he could drive her to Tonbridge in time to catch the four-ten to London. Only he’d have to put the car along a bit.

That didn’t matter. If there were an accident and she were killed, so much the better. She went indoors, up to her room.

Rose was there dusting. Rose was sympathetic too, and helped her to pack a suit-case. Nana came; how she hated Nana!

“I did not hear the telephone bell ring, madam.”

Nana suspected. Let her, then. She would be done with them all soon. Let them think what they liked.

It was strange that she could think so coolly when every nerve was stretched to breaking-point. Money. She’d drawn a cheque on Wednesday. That was all right. Her cheque-book. She’d have to have her account transferred to London. That didn’t matter now. And the rest of her clothes. Something would have to be done. No good worrying about that now. Nana’s impassive face. What was Nana to tell the master? Nothing. She would write a note. He’d understand.

She wrote in the library, at Stephen’s desk, with the car waiting for her outside. How did one begin a letter like this? “Dear Stephen”—how silly that would be! Better to start straight away.

“I’ve gone. I couldn’t stop. I’ve told the servants I’d had a telephone call from home. You needn’t worry about me, I’ve got plenty of money. I’m sorry if it’s been my fault. Elizabeth.”

She put it in an envelope and sealed it. An apology for a letter. Stephen would have done it better, probably. Only she wasn’t a novelist. It would have to stand as it was. There was no time to re-write it.

She went out to the car, and got in.

“I do ’ope it’s nothing serious, ma’am!” Rose said.

Nothing serious! If only they knew! Well, they would know soon.

“No, I hope not. Ready, Jenkins.”