It all seemed too unnatural to be true.

That very night, that very hour, he must go forth again into the wild February weather and hide himself, leaving all these things behind him; leaving behind too his wife, the woman he had so bitterly injured, but who was still his wife.

It seemed impossible.

Surely he might stay if he pleased; it was not true that detectives were on his track--it was all a dream, since that dreadful day when he had written that name, which was not his, upon a piece of paper.

He had waked up and was again at home.