All that afternoon Ruth waited behind locked doors—she did not know what for; she only knew that They were prowling about watching their chance. She had drawn the curtains across the windows though the sun was still high in the heaven, and sat in the darkness, longing for Ernie as she never would have believed she could have longed for him. Every now and then little Alice came in a tip-toe from the backyard to visit her. The child thought her mother had one of her rare head-aches, and was solicitous accordingly.
About three o'clock Ruth crept upstairs and peeped through her window. It was as she had thought. Alf was there, strolling up and down the pavement opposite, watching the house. Then he saw her, half-hidden though she was, crossed the street briskly and knocked.
She went down at once to give him battle.
He met her with his sly smile, insolently sure of himself.
"Police come yet?" he asked.
She banged the door in his face; and the bang brought her strange relief. With mocking knuckles he rapped on the window on to the street as he withdrew.
After that nobody came but the children back from school. Ruth packed them off to bed early. She wanted to be alone with little Alice.
In the kitchen she waited on in the dark.
Then she heard solid familiar feet tramping down the pavement towards her cottage. She knew whose feet they were, and knew their errand. The hour of decision had come. One way or the other it must be.
In the confusion and uncertainty only one thing was clear to her. There was a way—and a price to be paid; if she took it.