believed
that this man was watching his feet, measuring them, saying to
himself, "Yes, those are the feet that will fit my plaster cast."

After the funeral he began to grow calmer, and soon he was able to
believe during long periods of each day that the most considerable
risks were now over.

Then came news of the legacy to Mavis--the cursed money that he
hated, that threw him back into the earlier distress concerning his
wife's shame, that restored vividness to the thoughts which had faded
in presence of the one overpowering thought of his own imminent peril.

But here again he was governed by what he had set before himself as
his unfailing guide-post--the necessity to conceal any motive for an
act of vengeance. What would people think if he refused the money? It
was a question not easy to answer, and the guide-post seemed to point
in two opposite directions. He was harassed by terrible doubt until he
and Mavis went to see the solicitor at Old Manninglea. During the
conversation over there he assured himself that the solicitor saw
nothing odd in the legacy, and made no guess at there having been an
intrigue between Mavis and the benefactor; and further he ascertained
that this was only one of several similar legacies. All was clear
then: the guide-post pointed one way now: they must take the money.

But this necessity shook Dale badly again. It seemed as if the man so
tightly put away in his lead coffin and stone vault was not done with
yet. It was as if one could never be free from his influence, as if,
dead or alive, he exercised power over one. Dale resisted such
superstitious fancies in vain. They upset him; and the fear returned,
bigger than before.

It was irrational, bone-crumbling fear--something that defied
argument, that nothing could allay. It was like the elemental passion
felt by the hunted animal--not fear of death, but the anguish of the
live thing which must perforce struggle to escape death, although
prolonged flight is worse than that from which it flies.

Dale had no real fear of death--nor even fear of the gallows. If the
worst came, he could face death bravely. He was quite sure of that.
Then, as he told himself thousands of times, it was absurd to be so
shaken by terror. Terror of what? And he thought, "It is because of
the uncertainty. But there too, how absurdly fullish I am; for there
is no _real_ uncertainty. My crime can not and will not be discovered.
If I were to go now and accuse m