If she were an outcast and a menace to society, Dalton had done it.

By what hellish process, he could not divine, knowing Lady Barbara as he did, but the fact was undeniable.
What then was he to do?
Go back to London and leave her, or stay here and fight on in the effort to save her?
SAVE HER! Who could save her?
She had stolen the goods; been arrested with them in her possession; was in the Tombs; and, in a few weeks, would be lost to the world for a term of years.
He could even now see the vulgar, leering crowd; watch the jury, picked from the streets, file in and take their seats; hear the few, curt, routine words, cold as bullets, drop from the lips of the callous judge, the frail, desolate woman deserted by every soul, paying the price without murmur or protest--glad that the end had come.
And then, with one of those tricks that memory sometimes plays, he saw the altar-rail, where he had stood beside her--she in her bridal robes, her soft blue eyes turned toward his; he heard again the responses, "for better or for worse"-- "until death do us part," caught the scent of flowers and the peal of the organ as they turned and walked down the aisle, past the throng of richly dressed guests.
"Great God!" he choked, worming his way through the crowd, unconscious of his course, unmindful of his steps, oblivious to passers-by--alone with an agony that scorched his very soul..