It was her fault; she had held him back from the release of death, had made him promise to live, to drag through a life of shame and humiliation, an outcast, a pariah, a creature from whom such women as herself would shrink as from something loathsome.
The thought was intolerable.

Surely he could escape; they had not got upon his track yet.

Oh, why had he not gone, while there was time?
Then she remembered that he had said that he had not enough money even to buy another revolver; of course, he could not hope to get away without money.

A blush rose to her face; she sprang to her desk; with a trembling hand she unlocked it and took out a five-pound note--it was the only one she possessed, and she had been keeping it for the day, that might so easily come, when she should lose her work and have to fall back upon her resources.

Often enough she had regarded this five-pound note as a barrier against the dread wolf that prowled about so many of the doors of The Jail, against absolute destitution.