least she could rest, and would be alone, in the empty house, the house
of misery and murder, that was yet the one shelter that she knew of in
all London.

She crept to the King's road, and returned with a few sandwiches,
walking better in her eagerness to break a fast which she had only felt
since excitement had given place to despair. But now it was making her
faint and ill. And she hurried, weary though she was.

But in the little street itself she stood aghast. A crowd filled it; the
crowd stood before the empty house of sorrow and of crime; and in a
moment Rachel saw the cause.

It was her own fault. She had left the light burning in the upper room,
the bedroom on the second floor.

Rachel joined the skirts of the crowd--drawn by an irresistible
fascination--and listened to what was being said. All eyes were upon the
lighted window of the bedroom--watching for herself, as she soon
discovered--and this made her doubly safe where she stood behind the
press.

"She's up there, I tell yer," said one.

"Not her! It's a ghost."

"Her 'usband's ghost, then."

"But vere's a chap 'ere wot sore 'er fice to fice in the next street;
an' followed 'er and 'eard the door go; an' w'en 'e come back wiv 'is