Rodman, unable to find his wife, summoned the servant.
‘Where is your mistress?’
‘Out, sir.’
He examined the girl shrewdly, with his eyes and with words. It was perfectly true that women—of a kind—could not resist him. In the end he discovered exactly what had happened. He laughed his wonted laugh of cynical merriment.
‘Go to bed,’ he said to the servant. ‘And if you hear anyone at the door, pay no attention.’
Then he locked up the house, front and back, and, having extinguished all lights except a small lantern by which he could read in the sitting-room without danger of its being discerned from outside, sat down with a sense of amusement. Presently there came a ring at the bell; it was repeated again and again. The month was October, the night decidedly cool. Rodman chuckled to himself; he had a steaming glass of whisky before him and sipped it delicately. The ringing continued for a quarter of an hour, then five minutes passed, and no sound came. Rodman stepped lightly to the front door, listened, heard nothing, unlocked and opened. Alice was standing in the middle of the road, her hands crossed over her breast and holding her shoulders as though she suffered from the cold. She came forward and entered the house without speaking.
In the sitting-room she found the lantern and looked at her husband in surprise. His face was stern.
‘What’s all this?’ he asked sharply.
‘I’ve been to London,’ she answered, her teeth chattering with cold and her voice uncertain from fear.
‘Been to London? And what business had you to go without telling me?’