Lettice made no answer. She stole back into her sitting-room and shut the door.
So this was the end. The prisoner was released, indeed; but no mortal voice had told him he was free, no earthly friend had met him at the door.
She fell on her knees, and prayed that the soul which had been persecuted might have rest. Then, when the last stroke of the bell had died away, she sat down in mute despair, and felt that she had lost the best thing life had to give her.
Outside upon the pavement men and women were passing to and fro. There was no forecourt to the house; passers-by walked close to the windows; they could look in if they tried. Lettice had not lighted a candle, and had not drawn her blinds, but a gas-lamp standing just in front threw a feeble glimmer into the room, which fell upon her where she sat. As the shadows deepened the light grew stronger, and falling direct upon her eyes, roused her at last from the lethargy into which she had sunk.
She got up and walked to the window, intending to close the shutters. Listlessly for a moment she looked out into the street, where the gas-light flickered upon the meeting streams of humanity—old folk and young, busy and idle, hopeful and despairing, all bent on their own designs, heedless like herself of the jostling world around them.
She had the shutter in her hand, and was turning it upon its hinges, when a face in the crowd suddenly arrested her. She had seen it once, that ghastly painted face, and it had haunted her in her dreams for weeks and months afterwards. It had tyrannized over her in her sickness, and only left her in peace when she began to recover her strength under the bright Italian skies. And now she saw her again, the wife who had wrecked her husband's happiness, for whom he had lingered in a cruel prison, who flaunted herself in the streets whilst Alan's brave and generous heart was stilled for ever.
Cora turned her face as she passed the window, and looked in. She might not in that uncertain light have recognized the woman whose form stood out from the darkness behind her, but an impulse moved Lettice which she could not resist. At the moment when the other turned her head she beckoned to her with her hand, and quickly threw up the sash of the window.
"Mon Dieu!" said Cora, coming up close to her, "is it really you? What do you want with me?"
"Come in! I must speak to you."
"I love you not, Lettice Campion, and you love not me. What would you?"