The knife was in his possession; the world was before him; but a new distrust of her--a vague, unspeakable, superstitious dread had overcome him.
"I must know where she goes, now she thinks I have left her," he said to himself, as he stole back wearily to the precincts of his house.
It was still dark.

He had left the candle burning in the bedchamber; but when he looked up to the window of the room now there was no light in it.

He crept cautiously to the house door.

On going away, he remembered to have closed it; on trying it now, he found it open.
He waited outside, never losing sight of the house, till daylight.

Then he ventured indoors--listened, and heard nothing--looked into kitchen, scullery, parlor and found nothing; went up at last into the bedroom--it was empty.