To-morrow, too, she would have to meet the squire, and appear to act and talk as though nothing had happened in this terrible night.

That would be the hardest of all, perhaps; even harder than meeting her husband for a brief moment in order to give him the means of escape.

She felt that in helping him she was participating in his crimes, and yet, she asked herself, what woman would have acted differently?
What woman, even though she might hate her husband with her whole soul, and justly, would yet be so hard-hearted as to refuse him assistance when he was flying for his life?
It would be impossible.

She must help him at any cost; but it was hard to feel that she must see the squire and behave with indifference, while her husband was lurking in the neighbourhood, when a detective might at any moment come to the door, and demand to search the house.
These thoughts passed very quickly through her overwrought brain, as she knelt in the passage; kneeling because she felt she could no longer stand, the passionate tears streaming down her face, her small hands pressing her temples.

Then she struggled to her feet and dried her eyes, steadying herself against the wall for a moment.