had taken my advice, the business of the Inquest
would have been with the body of Mr. Hartright.
But my lamented friend was obstinate.
See! I mourn his loss— inwardly in my soul;
outwardly on my hat. This trivial crape expresses
sensibilities which I summon Mr. Hartright
to respect. They may be transformed to
immeasurable enmities, if he ventures to disturb
them! Let him be content with what he has
got— with what I leave unmolested, for your
to him and to you. Say to him (with my
compliments), if he stirs me, he has Fosco to
deal with. In the English of the Popular
Tongue, I inform him— Fosco sticks at nothing!
Dear lady, good morning.' His cold grey eyes
settled on my face— he took off his hat solemnly
— bowed, bareheaded— and left me."

"Without, returning? without saying more
last words?"

"He turned at the corner of the street, and
waved his hand, and then struck it theatrically
on his breast. I lost sight of him, after that.
He disappeared in the opposite direction to our
house; and I ran back to Laura. Before I was
in-doors again, I had made up my mind that we
must go. The house (especially in your absence)
was a place of danger instead of a place of safety,
now that the Count had discovered it. If I
could have felt certain of your return, I should
have risked waiting till you came back. But I
was certain of nothing, and I acted at once on
my own impulse. You had spoken, before leaving
us, of moving into a quieter neighbourhood
and purer air, for the sake of Laura's health.
I had only to remind her of that, and to suggest
surprising you and saving you trouble by
managing the move in your absence, to make
her quite as anxious for the change as I was.
She helped me to pack up your things— and she
has arranged them all for you in your new working-room
here."

"What made you think of coming to this
place?"

"My ignorance of other localities in the
neighbourhood of London. I felt the necessity
of getting as far away as possible from our old
lodgings; and I knew something of Fulham because
I had once been at school there. I
despatched a messenger with a note, on the
chance that the school might still be in existence.
It was in existence: the daughters of my
old mistress were carrying it on for her; and
they engaged this place from the instructions I
had sent. It was just post-time when the messenger
returned to me with the address of the
house. We moved after dark— we came here
quite unobserved. Have I done right, Walter?
Have I justified your trust in me?"

I answered her warmly and gratefully, as I
really felt. But the anxious look still remained
on her face while I was speaking; and the first
question she asked, when I had done, related to
Count Fosco. I saw that she was thinking of
him now with a changed mind. No fresh outbreak
of anger against him, no new appeal to
me to hasten the day of reckoning, escaped her.
Her conviction that the man's hateful admiration
of herself was really sincere, seemed to
have increased a hundredfold her distrust of his
unfathomable cunning, her inborn dread of the
wicked energy and vigilance of all his faculties.
Her voice fell low, her manner was hesitating,
her eyes searched into mine with an eager fear,
when she asked me what I thought of his message,
and what I meant to do next, after hearing
it.

"Not many weeks have passed, Marian,"
I answered, " since my interview with Mr.
Kyrle. When he and I parted, the last words I
said to him about Laura were these: 'Her
uncle's house shall open to receive her, in the
presence of every soul who followed the false
funeral to the grave; the lie that records her
death shall be publicly erased from the tombstone
by the authority of the head of the family;
and the two men who have wronged her shall
answer for their crime to ME, though the justice
that sits in tribunals is powerless to pursue
them.' One of those men is beyond mortal
reach. The other remains— and my resolution
remains."

Her eyes lit up; her colour rose. She said
nothing; but I saw all her sympathies gathering
to mine, in her face.

"I don't disguise from myself, or from you,"
I went on, " that the prospect before us is more
than doubtful. The risks we have run already
are, it may be, trifles, compared with the risks
that threaten us in the future— but the venture
shall be tried, Marian, for all that. I am not
rash enough to measure myself against such a
man as the Count before I am well prepared for
him. I have learnt patience; I can wait my
time. Let him believe that his message has
produced its effect; let him know nothing of
us, and hear nothing of us; let us give him full
time to feel secure— his own boastful nature,
unless I seriously mistake him, will hasten that
result. This is one reason for waiting; but
there is another, more important still. My
position, Marian, towards you and towards
Laura, ought to be a stronger one than it is
now, before I try our last chance."

She leaned near to me, with a look of surprise.

"How can it be stronger?" she asked.

"I will tell you," I replied, " when the time
comes. It has not come yet: it may never come
at all. I may be silent about it to Laura for ever
— I must be silent, now, even to you, till I see
for myself that I may harmlessly and honourably
speak. Let us leave that subject. There
is another which has more pressing claims
on our attention. You have kept Laura, mercifully
kept her, in ignorance of her husband's
death —"

"Oh, Walter, surely it must be long yet,
before we tell her of it?"

"No, Marian. Better that you should reveal
it to her now, than that accident, which no
one can guard against, should reveal it to her at
some future time. Spare her all the details—
break it to her very tenderly— but tell her that
he is dead."

"You have a reason, Walter, for wishing her