ot him. At any rate, he had his
collar--"

Then Mary broke out. She burst into sobs, pushed her hand into her
dress, and held out the collar to him.

"There it is! There it is!" she said hysterically.

"You've got it?" He stared at her, suspicion slowly coming to him. "But
how--? What have you done?"

She looked up at him wild-eyed, the tears making dirty lines on her
face, her hand out towards him.

"I took it off. I shut Hamlet into the barn at Mellot Farm. I wanted
him to be lost. I didn't want you to have him. I hated him--always being
with you, and me never."

Jeremy moved back, and at the sudden look in his eyes her sobbing
ceased, she caught her breath and stared at him with a silly fixed stare
as a rabbit quivers before a snake.

Jeremy said in his ordinary voice:

"You shut Hamlet up? You didn't want him to be found?"

She nodded her head several times as though now she must convince him
quickly of this--

"Yes, yes, yes. I did... I know I shouldn't, but I couldn't help it--"

He clutched her arm, and then shook her with a sudden wave of fierce
physical anger that was utterly unlike him, and, therefore, the more
terrifying.

"You wicked, wicked--You beast, Mary!"

She could only sob, her head hanging down. He let her go.

"What barn was it?"

She described the place.

He gave her another look of contempt and then rushed off, running across
the courtyard.

There was still no one in the hall; she could go up to her room without
the fear of being disturbed. She found the room, all white and black
now with the gathering dusk. Beyond the window the evening breeze was
rustling in the dark trees of the garden and the boom of the sea could
be heard faintly. Mary sat, where she always sat when she was unhappy,
inside the wardrobe with her head amongst the clothes. They in some
way comforted her; she was not so lonely with them, nor did she feel so
strongly the empty distances of the long room, the white light of the
window-frames, nor the mysterious secrecy of the high elms knocking
their heads together in the garden outside.

She had a fit of hysterical crying, biting the hanging clothes between
her teeth, feeling suddenly sick and tired and exhausted, with flaming
eyes and a dry, parched throat. Why had she ever done such a thing, she
loving Jeremy as she did? Would he ever forgive her? No, never; she saw
that in his face. Perhaps he would--if he found Hamlet quickly and came
back. Perhaps Ham