ing him of being a criminal. And yet I might
have been in the bottomless pond, in the bottomless pond, and no one
would have known."

If it all had not seemed so incredible to her, if she could have felt
certain herself, she would not have been overwhelmed with this sense of
being baffled, bewildered, lost.

The Ayah who so loved Hester might hate her rival. A jealous native
woman might be capable of playing stealthy tricks, which, to her strange
mind, might seem to serve a proper end. Captain Osborn might not know.
She breathed again as this thought came to her. He could not know; it
would be too insane, too dangerous, too wicked.

And yet, if she had been flung headlong down the staircase, if the fall
had killed her, where would have been the danger for the man who would
only have deplored a fatal accident. If she had leaned upon the rail and
fallen into the black depths of water below, what could have been blamed
but a piece of rotten wood. She touched her forehead with her
handkerchief because it felt cold and damp. There was no way out. Her
teeth chattered.

"They may be as innocent as I am. And they may be murderers in their
hearts. I can prove nothing, I can prevent nothing. Oh! _do_ come home."

There was but one thought which remained clear in her mind. She must
keep herself safe--she must keep herself safe. In the anguish of her
trouble she confessed, by putting it into words, a thing which she had
not confessed before, and even as she spoke she did not realise that her
words contained confession.

"If I were to die now," she said with a touching gravity, "he would care
very much."

A few moments later she said, "It does not matter what happens to me,
how ridiculous or vulgar or foolish I seem, if I can keep myself
safe--until after. I will write to him now and ask him to try to come
back."

It was the letter she wrote after this decision which Osborn saw among
others awaiting postal, and which he stopped to examine.

Chapter Eighteen

Hester sat at the open window of her boudoir in the dark. She had
herself put out the wax candles, because she wanted to feel herself
surrounded by the soft blackness. She had sat through the dinner and
heard her husband's anxious inquiries about the rotten handrail, and had
watched his disturbed face and Emily's pale one. She herself had said
but little, and had been glad when the time came that she could decently
excuse herself and come away.

As she sat