After a time of worry and harassment, she decided to go to Wragby. Hilda would go with her. She wrote this to Clifford. He replied: “I shall not welcome your sister, but I shall not deny her the door. I have no doubt she has connived at your desertion of your duties and responsibilities, so do not expect me to show pleasure in seeing her.”

They went to Wragby. Clifford was away when they arrived. Mrs. Bolton received them.

“Oh, your Ladyship, it isn’t the happy homecoming we hoped for, is it!” she said.

“Isn’t it!” said Connie.

So this woman knew! How much did the rest of the servants know or suspect?

She entered the house which now she hated with every fiber in her body. The great, rambling mass of a place seemed evil to her, just a menace over her. She was no longer its mistress, she was its victim.

“I can’t stay long here,” she whispered to Hilda, terrified.

And she suffered going into her own bedroom, reentering into possession as if nothing had happened. She hated every minute inside the Wragby walls.

They did not meet Clifford till they went down to dinner. He was dressed, and with a black tie: rather reserved, and very much the superior gentleman. He behaved perfectly politely during the meal, and kept a polite sort of conversation going: but it seemed all touched with insanity.

“How much do the servants know?” asked Connie, when the woman was out of the room.

“Of your intentions? Nothing whatsoever.”