The hours passed--and there was the house opposite still shut up, still void of any signs of human existence inside or out.

The one object which had decided Magdalen on personally venturing herself in Vauxhall Walk--the object of studying the looks, manners and habits of Mrs.Lecount and her master from a post of observation known only to herself--was thus far utterly defeated.
After three hours' watching at the window, she had not even discovered enough to show her that the house was inhabited at all.
Shortly after six o'clock, the landlady disturbed Mrs.Wragge's studies by spreading the cloth for dinner.

Magdalen placed herself at the table in a position which still enabled her to command the view from the window.

Nothing happened.

The dinner came to an end; Mrs.Wragge (lulled by the narcotic influence of annotating circulars, and eating and drinking with an appetite sharpened by the captain's absence) withdrew to an arm-chair, and fell asleep in an attitude which would have caused her husband the acutest mental suffering; seven o'clock struck; the shadows of the summer evening lengthened stealthily on the gray pavement and the brown house-walls--and still the closed door opposite remained shut; still the one window open showed nothing but the black blank of the room inside, lifeless and changeless as if that room had been a tomb.
Mrs.Wragge's meek snoring deepened in tone; the evening wore on drearily; it was close on eight o'clock--when an event happened at last.
The street door opposite opened for the first time, and a woman appeared on the threshold.
Was the woman Mrs.Lecount?
No.