had been waiting about the spot, occasionally
walking to a short distance, but always keeping her face turned towards
the door. One or two persons came up and entered; she observed them,
but held aloof. Another drew near. The woman advanced, and, as she did
so, freed one of her arms from the shawl.

'That you, Grace?' said Clara, almost kindly, for in her victorious joy
she was ready to be at peace with all the world.

The answer was something dashed violently in her face--something fluid
and fiery--something that ate into her flesh, that frenzied her with
pain, that drove her shrieking she knew not whither.

Late in the same night, a pointsman, walking along the railway a little
distance out of the town, came upon the body of a woman, train-crushed,
horrible to view. She wore the dress of a lady; a shawl was still
partly wrapped about her, and her hands were gloved. Nothing
discoverable upon her would have helped strangers in the task of
identification, and as for her face--But a missing woman was already
sought by the police, and when certain persons were taken to view this
body, they had no difficulty in pronouncing it that of Grace Danver.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE FAMILY HISTORY PROGRESSES

What could possess John Hewett that, after resting from the day's work,
he often left his comfortable room late in the evening and rambled
about the streets of that part of London which had surely least
interest for him, the streets which are thronged with idlers, with
carriages going homeward from the theatres, with those who can only
come forth to ply their business when darkness has fallen? Did he seek
food for his antagonism in observing the characteristics of the world
in which he was a stranger, the world which has its garners full and
takes its ease amid superfluity? It could scarcely be that, for since
his wife's death an indifference seemed to be settling upon him; he no
longer cared to visit the Green or his club on Sunday, and seldom spoke
on the subjects which formerly goaded him to madness. He appeared to be
drawn forth against his will, in spite of weariness, and his look as he
walked on was that of a man who is in search of some one. Yet whom
could he expect to meet in these highways of the West End?

Oxford Street, Regent Street, Piccadilly, the Strand, the ways about
St. James's Park; John Hewett was not the only father who has come
forth after nightfall from an obscure home to look darkly at the faces
pa