out into the corridor, as she looked wistfully up the short flight of stairs that led to the nursery. Her husband's door stood open; in passing a sudden thought struck her. She went in and opened one of the drawers, inside was a leather case. She looked at it for a moment, then slowly touched the spring, and disclosed a couple of revolvers.
Anthony had been giving her lessons in shooting of late; with that small murderous looking instrument she would at least be able to protect herself. She saw that it was loaded, and held it firmly clutched in her hand under her cloak, as she made her way down the stairs. She had calculated her time well, there was no one in the hall when she let herself out and closed the door behind her softly.
It was a damp night, typical April weather. To Judith, after fevered tossing to and fro on the couch, its very moisture seemed refreshing.
Leinster Avenue was fairly familiar ground to her; in her governess days she had often brought her pupil to see some friends who lived near. Insensibly her feet turned towards the Tube; she had reverted to the mode of conveyance most familiar to her in early days. From Bond Street to Holland Park was but an affair of a few minutes, and from there she knew her way to Leinster Avenue. Abbey Court must be, she felt sure, one of the great blocks of flats standing at the near end of the Avenue. She found that she was right. Abbey Court, Nos. 1—50, faced her as she turned the well-known corner.
Looking up at the big new building she shivered. She thought of the coming interview. Just then some neighbouring clock chimed the half-hour.
She started nervously, she must not keep the man waiting, and she walked up the steps. In the hall the porter touched his cap.
"Lift, ma'am?"
She stepped in and gave the number mechanically.
They stopped at the fifth floor, the man got out and rang the bell for her.
Judith gave him half a crown, and was conscious that he stood and looked at her doubtfully.
The door opened immediately. Instinctively her hand closed more firmly over the revolver.
"Is that you, Judy? Come in!"
She was drawn through the door quickly. She recognized that there was an indefinable change in the voice since the afternoon.
Inside on the other side of a narrow passage was a door opening into a small room, evidently used as a dining-room, velvet curtains hung over the archway beyond; parted they disclosed a room fairly large for a flat. It looked like a man's den—papers and pipes were littered about. In the outer room beneath the electric light she paused and threw back her veil.
"What do you want with me?" she said curtly.
"Want with you?" The man laughed harshly. "I want you—you yourself, Judy, don't you understand? I meant to find you, I was going to put the search for you in the hands of the best detectives in London, when, just by chance, I saw you this afternoon, saw you another man's wife!"
Judith drew her breath in sharply. "I thought you were dead. I saw it in the papers, I never dreamed that there was any mistake."
"Sometimes it is convenient to die," he said sullenly. "And you—and you were always too much inclined to take things on trust, Judy!"
The woman looked at him, her breath quickening, the first dawning of a horrible suspicion turning her white and cold.
"What do you mean?"
He laughed, though a curious indrawing of breath mingled with his laughter.
"I told you a lie when we parted, Judith. You made me mad, and I meant to bring your pride down somehow, but if I had known how you would take it—"
"A lie," Judith repeated. "A lie!" She drew farther from him, back against the wall, her face absolutely colourless save for the dark rings round her eyes, her lips stiff and cold. "What lie did you tell me?"
The man looked at her, his face was flushed, his eyes were bloodshot; with a throb of disgust Judith realized he had been drinking.
"You know," he said hoarsely. "You haven't forgotten, for all your disdainful ways! I told you a lie when I said you were not my wife—that our marriage was not legal!"
"You did not!" The words caught in a strangled sob in Judith's throat. She put up her hands, and wrenched the fastenings of her cloak apart, tore like a wild thing at the chiffon round her neck. "It was not a lie!" she panted. "It was the truth you told me—God's truth. I was not your wife—I was never your wife for a single minute, thank Heaven."
"You were!" A very ugly light burned in the man's pale, prominent eyes—a light that might have warned her to be careful. "You are," he amended. "You are my wife, Judy; you are not Mad Carew's, and I mean to have my own. Come," putting out his hand, "you loved me once, you will not find it impossible to love me again."
"Never!" Judith backed near the archway. For the moment she did not heed the danger of rousing the man, of kindling the fire that smouldered in his eyes. "Love you!" she repeated, "I never loved you, never, never—not for a single moment! I"—with a sob—"know that now!"
"Do you really?" The man sprang forward and caught her arm roughly. "And who has made you so wise?" he questioned with a harsh laugh. "Mad Carew? Never mind, Judy, I can afford to laugh! For, do as you will, you are mine, mine only."
Judith stood still in his clasp. She would not struggle with him, she would not try to match her puny strength against his, but her ungloved hand tightened round the shining toy she held. It might be—it might be that only that way would freedom come!
"Judith," the man went on pleading thickly, "I was mad that night—mad with drink, or I wouldn't have laid a hand on you, I wouldn't have lied to you. Our marriage was legal enough; the woman I had married before had been dead for years, but luck was against me. You would be better without me, that was what I thought, Judy, indeed!" his voice growing maudlin.
Still Judith did not speak. She was standing against the velvet portière now, silhouetted against the dark background; her delicate features, the ghastly pallor of her face had a cameo-like effect, her big changeful eyes followed his every movement.
His hand dropped from her arm. "But now, Judy, good luck has come to me at last. For every pound of Mad Carew's I will give you ten. I will give you a title too. Ay, you shall be my lady, still, and hold up your head with the best of them. You come back to me, Judy. I tell you I have loved you always—you only!"
"I think not!" Judith laughed scornfully. "You—what do you—what do such as you know of love?" She went on recklessly. "Nothing, less than nothing! I will never come back to you, never. You may be speaking the truth now, as you may have told me a lie before—I may be your wife—your most unhappy miserable wife—I may never have been—his! But at least I will never willingly see you again. Do you dream that I will take one penny of your boasted wealth? Rather than touch it I would starve."
"Would you?" the man said very quietly, his pale eyes watching her every movement. "Would you really?" His look might have told her that the maudlin mood was passing, that he was becoming quarrelsome. With a sudden movement he jerked up her arm. "What is this?" with a contemptuous laugh. "Ah, I see; well, a revolver is a dangerous toy in inexperienced hands. I think we will dispense with it." He twisted her hand, and catching the revolver from her threw it carelessly on the table, knocking over the glass inkstand that stood in the centre. The table-cloth was red, the ink poured across it in a black stream.
