unaccountably, irritated by mine. He struck the
new walking-stick savagely on the sand, and
walked away from us.

"Poor, dear Percival!" cried Count Fosco,
looking after him gaily; "he is the victim of
English spleen. But, my dear Miss Halcombe,
my dear Lady Glyde, do you really believe that
crimes cause their own detection? And you, my
angel," he continued, turning to his wife, who had
not uttered a word yet, "do you think so too?"

"I wait to be instructed," replied the
Countess, in tones of freezing reproof, intended
for Laura and me, "before I venture on giving
my opinion in the presence of well-informed men."

"Do you, indeed?" I said. "I remember
the time, Countess, when you advocated the
Rights of Women—and freedom of female
opinion was one of them."

"What is your view of the subject, Count?"
asked Madame Fosco, calmly proceeding with her
cigarettes, and not taking the least notice of me.

The Count stroked one of his white mice
reflectively with his chubby little-finger before he
answered.

"It is truly wonderful," he said, "how easily
Society can console itself for the worst of its
short-comings with a little bit of clap-trap. The
machinery it has set up for the detection of crime
is miserably ineffective—and yet only invent a
moral epigram, saying that it works well, and you
blind everybody to its blunders, from that
moment. Crimes cause their own detection, do
they? And murder will out (another moral
epigram), will it? Ask Coroners who sit at
inquests in large towns if that is true, Lady
Glyde. Ask secretaries of life-assurance
companies if that is true, Miss Halcombe. Read
your own public journals. In the few cases that
get into the newspapers, are there not instances
of slain bodies found, and no murderers ever
discovered? Multiply the cases that are reported
by the cases that are not reported, and the
bodies that are found by the bodies that are not
found; and what conclusion do you come to?
This. That there are foolish criminals who are
discovered, and wise criminals who escape. The
hiding of a crime, or the detection of a crime,
what is it? A trial of skill between the police
on one side, and the individual on the other.
When the criminal is a brutal, ignorant fool, the
police, in nine cases out of ten, win. When the
criminal is a resolute, educated, highly-intelligent
man, the police, in nine cases out of ten, lose.
If the police win, you generally hear all about
it. If the police lose, you generally hear
nothing. And on this tottering foundation you
build up your comfortable moral maxim that
Crime causes its own detection! Yes—all the
crime you know of. And, what of the rest?"

"Devilish true, and very well put," cried a
voice at the entrance of the boat-house. Sir
Percival had recovered his equanimity, and had
come back while we were listening to the Count.

"Some of it may be true," I said; "and all
of it may be very well put. But I don't see
why Count Fosco should celebrate the victory
of the criminal over society with so much
exultation, or why you, Sir Percival, should
applaud him so loudly for doing it."

"Do you hear that, Fosco?" asked Sir
Percival, with a sneer. "Take my advice, and make
your peace with your audience. Tell them
Virtue's a fine thing—they like that, I can
promise you."

The Count laughed inwardly and silently; and
two of the white mice in his waistcoat, alarmed
by the internal convulsion going on beneath
them, darted out in a violent hurry, and scrambled
into their cage again.

"The ladies, my good Percival, shall tell me
about virtue," he said. "They are better
authorities than I am; for they know what virtue
is, and I don't."

"You hear him?" said Sir Percival. "Isn't
it awful?"

"It is true," said the Count, quietly. "I am
a citizen of the world, and I have met, in my
time, with so many different sorts of virtue, that
I am puzzled, in my old age, to say which is the
right sort and which is the wrong. Here, in
England, there is one virtue. And there, in
China, there is another virtue. And John
Englishman says my virtue is the genuine virtue.
And John Chinaman says my virtue is the
genuine virtue. And I say Yes to one, or No
to the other, and am just as much bewildered
about it in the case of John with the top-boots
as I am in the case of John with the pigtail.
Ah, nice little Mousey! Come, kiss me. What
is your own private notion of a virtuous man,
my pret-pret-pretty? A man who keeps you
warm, and gives you plenty to eat. And a good
notion, too, for it is intelligible, at the least."

"Stay a minute, Count," I interposed.
"Accepting your illustration, surely we have one
unquestionable virtue in England, which is wanting
in China. The Chinese authorities kill
thousands of innocent people, on the most horribly
frivolous pretexts. We, in England, are free
from all guilt of that kind—we commit no such
dreadful crime—we abhor reckless bloodshed,
with all our hearts."

"Quite right, Marian," said Laura. "Well
thought of, and well expressed."

"Pray allow the Count to proceed," said
Madame Fosco, with stern civility. "You will
find, young ladies, that he never speaks without
having excellent reasons for all that he says."

"Thank you, my angel," replied the Count.
"Have a bonbon?" He took out of his pocket
a pretty little inlaid box, and placed it open on
the table. "Chocolat à la Vanille," cried the
impenetrable man, cheerfully rattling the sweet-
meats in the box, and bowing all round.
"Offered by Fosco as an act of homage to the
charming society."

"Be good enough to go on, Count," said his
wife, with a spiteful reference to myself.
"Oblige me by answering Miss Halcombe."

"Miss Halcombe is unanswerable,"
replied the polite Italian—"that is to say, so far as she
goes. Yes! I agree with her. John Bull does
abhor the crimes of John Chinaman. He is the
quickest old gentleman at finding out the faults