had passed me, the road behind it was quite
clear.

I reached the inn without meeting Sir Percival,
and without noticing anything more; and
was glad to find that the landlady had
received Fanny with all possible kindness. The
girl had a little parlour to sit in, away from the
noise of the tap-room, and a clean bed-chamber
at the top of the house. She began crying
again, at the sight of me; and said, poor soul,
truly enough, that it was dreadful to feel herself
turned out into the world, as if she had committed
some unpardonable fault, when no blame
could be laid at her door by anybody—not even
by her master who had sent her away.

"Try to make the best of it, Fanny," I said.
"Your mistress and I will stand your friends,
and will take care that your character shall not
suffer. Now, listen to me. I have very little
time to spare, and I am going to put a great
trust in your hands. I wish you to take care of
these two letters. The one with the stamp on
it you are to put into the post, when you reach
London, to-morrow. The other, directed to Mr.
Fairlie, you are to deliver to him yourself, as soon
as you get home. Keep both the letters about
you, and give them up to no one. They are
of the last importance to your mistress's
interests."

Fanny put the letters into the bosom of her
dress. "There they shall stop, miss," she said,
"till I have done what you tell me."

"Mind you are at the station in good time
to-morrow morning," I continued. "And, when
you see the housekeeper at Limmeridge, give
her my compliments, and say that you are in my
service, until Lady Glyde is able to take you
back. We may meet again sooner than you
think. So keep a good heart, and don't miss
the seven o'clock train."

"Thank you, miss—thank you kindly. It
gives one courage to hear your voice again.
Please to offer my duty to my lady; and say I
left all the things as tidy as I could in the time.
Oh, dear! dear! who will dress her for dinner
to-day? It really breaks my heart, miss, to
think of it."

When I got back to the house, I had only a
quarter of an hour to spare, to put myself in
order for dinner, and to say two words to Laura
before I went down stairs.

"The letters are in Fanny's hands," I whispered
to her, at the door. "Do you mean to
join us at dinner?"

"Oh, no, no—not for the world!"

"Has anything happened? Has any one
disturbed you?"

"Yes—just now—Sir Percival—-"

"Did he come in?"

"No: he frightened me by a thump on the
door, outside. I said, 'Who's there?' 'You
know,' he answered. 'Will you alter your mind,
and tell me the rest? You shall! Sooner or later,
I'll wring it out of you. You know where Anne
Catherick is, at this moment!' 'Indeed, indeed,'
I said, 'I don't.' 'You do!' he called back.
'I'll crush your obstinacy—mind that!—I'll
wring it out of you!' He went away, with those
words—went away, Marian, hardly five minutes
ago."

He had not found her. We were safe for
that night—he had not found her yet.

"You are going down stairs, Marian? Come
up again in the evening."

"Yes, yes. Don't be uneasy, if I am a little
late—I must be careful not to give offence by
leaving them too soon."

The dinner-bell rang; and I hastened away.

Sir Percival took Madame Fosco into the
dining-room; and the Count gave me his arm.
He was hot and flushed, and was not dressed
with his customary care and completeness. Had
he, too, been out before dinner, and been late in
getting back? or was he only suffering from the
heat a little more severely than usual?

However this might be, he was unquestionably
troubled by some secret annoyance or
anxiety, which, with all his powers of deception,
he was not able entirely to conceal. Through
the whole of dinner, he was almost as silent as
Sir Percival himself; and he, every now and
then, looked at his wife with an expression of
furtive uneasiness, which was quite new in my
experience of him. The one social obligation
which he seemed to be self-possessed enough to
perform as carefully as ever, was the obligation
of being persistently civil and attentive to me.
What vile object he has in view, I cannot still
discover; but, be the design what it may,
invariable politeness towards myself, invariable
humility towards Laura, and invariable
suppression (at any cost) of Sir Percival's clumsy
violence, have been the means he has resolutely
arid impenetrably used to get to his end, ever
since he set foot in this house. I suspected it,
when he first interfered in our favour, on the
day when the deed was produced in the library,
and I feel certain of it, now.

When Madame Fosco and I rose to leave the
table, the Count rose also to accompany us back
to the drawing-room.

"What are you going away for?" asked Sir
Percival—"I mean you, Fosco."

"I am going away, because I have had dinner
enough, and wine enough," answered the Count.
"Be so kind, Percival, as to make allowances for
my foreign habit of going out with the ladies, as
well as coming in with them."

"Nonsense! Another glass of claret won't
hurt you. Sit down again like an Englishman.
I want half an hour's quiet talk with you over
our wine."

"A quiet talk, Percival, with all my heart,
but not now, and not over the wine. Later in
the evening, if you please—later in the
evening."

"Civil!" said Sir Percival, savagely. "Civil
behaviour, upon my soul, to a man in his own
house!"

I had more than once seen him look at the
Count uneasily during dinner-time, and had
observed that the Count carefully abstained from
looking at him in return. This circumstance,