no longer fear
you, that I have done with you. Use your letters, if you will, you can
harm me no more; I have passed out of the region of your influence,
out of the reach of your revenge. I look on you now and wonder what
the link was between us, for there was a mysterious link. That I
cannot tell. But this I can tell you. I have let go your hand, and you
are going to fall down a great precipice, George, a precipice of which
I cannot see the foot. Yes, it is right that you should cower before
me now; I have cowered before you for more than twenty years. You made
me what I am. I am going into the next room now till my carriage
comes, I did not order it till half-past ten. Do not follow me. But
before I go I will tell you something, and you know I do not make
mistakes. You will never sleep under this roof again, George
Caresfoot, and we shall not meet again alive. You have had a long day,
but your hour has struck."

"Who told you that, woman?" he asked, furiously.

"Last night I read it in the stars, to-night I read it in your face."

And again she looked at him, long and steadily, as he crouched in the
chair before her, and then slowly left the room.

After awhile he roused himself, and began to drink wine furiously.

"Curse her," he said, as the fumes mounted into his brain, "curse her,
she is trying to frighten me with her infernal magic, but she sha'n't.
I know what she is at; but I will be beforehand with her." And,
staggering under the mingled influence of drink and excitement, he
rose and left the house.

Lady Bellamy sat in the drawing-room, and waited for her carriage; at
last she heard the wheels upon the gravel. Then she rose, and rapidly
did something to the great lamp upon the paper-strewn table. As she
shut the door she turned.

"That will do," she said.

In the hall she met the servant coming to announce the carriage.

"Is your master still in the dining-room?" she asked.

"No, my lady."

She laughed a little, and civilly bade the man good-night.

CHAPTER LV

Outside the door of the registry-office, Angela and her father had to
make their way through a crowd of small boys, who had by some means or
other found out that a wedding was going on inside, and stood waiting
there, animated by the intention of cheering the bride and the certain
hope of sixpences. But when they saw Angela, her stately form robed in
black, and her sweet face betraying the anguish of he