and that letter to contain a strip of paper
measuring accurately the length of my sword.
Those are my terms. Inform me if you accept
them—Yes, or No."

The extraordinary mixture of prompt decision,
far-sighted cunning, and mountebank bravado in
this speech, staggered me for a moment—and
only for a moment. The one question to
consider was, whether I was justified, or not, in
possessing myself of the means of establishing
Laura's identity, at the cost of allowing the
scoundrel who had robbed her of it to escape
me with impunity. I knew that the motive of
securing the just recognition of my wife in the
birthplace from which she had been driven out
as an impostor, and of publicly erasing the lie
that still profaned her mother's tombstone, was
far purer, in its freedom from all taint of evil
passion, than the vindictive motive which had
mingled itself with my purpose from the first.
And yet I cannot honestly say that my own moral
convictions were strong enough to decide the
struggle in me, by themselves. They were
helped by my remembrance of Sir Percival's
death. How awfully, at the last moment, had
the working of the retribution, there, been
snatched from my feeble hands! What right
had I to decide, in my poor mortal ignorance
of the future, that this man, too, must escape
with impunity, because he escaped me? I
thought of these things—perhaps, with the
superstition inherent in my nature; perhaps, with
a sense worthier of me than superstition. It
was hard, when I had fastened my hold on him,
at last, to loosen it again of my own accord—
but I forced myself to make the sacrifice. In
plainer words, I determined to be guided by
the one higher motive of which I was certain,
the motive of serving the cause of Laura and
the cause of Truth.

"I accept your conditions," I said. " With
one reservation, on my part."

"What reservation may that be?" he asked.

"It refers to the sealed letter," I answered.
"I require you to destroy it, unopened, in
my presence, as soon as it is placed in your
hands."

My object in making this stipulation was
simply to prevent him from carrying away
written evidence of the nature of my communication
with Pesca. The fact of my communication
he would necessarily discover, when I gave
the address to his agent, in the morning. But
he could make no use of it, on his own unsupported
testimony—even if he really ventured
to try the experiment—which need excite
in me the slightest apprehension on Pesca's
account.

"I grant your reservation," he replied, after
considering the question gravely for a minute
or two. " It is not worth dispute—the letter
shall be destroyed when it comes into my
hands."

He rose, as he spoke, from the chair in which
he had been sitting opposite to me, up to this
time. With one effort, he appeared to free his
mind from the whole pressure on it of the interview
between us, thus far. " Ouf!" he cried,
stretching his arms luxuriously; "the skirmish
was hot while it lasted. Take a seat, Mr.
Hartright. We meet as mortal enemies hereafter—
let us, like gallant gentlemen, exchange polite
attentions in the mean time. Permit me to take
the liberty of calling for my wife."

He unlocked and opened the door. "Eleanor!"
he called out, in his deep voice. The lady of
the viperish face came in. "Madame Fosco—
Mr. Hartright," said the Count, introducing
us with easy dignity. " My angel," he went on,
addressing his wife; " will your labours of
packing-up allow you time to make me some nice
strong coffee? I have writing-business to transact
with Mr. Hartright and I require the full
possession of my intelligence to do justice to
myself."

Madame Fosco bowed her head twice—once
sternly to me; once submissively to her husband
—and glided out of the room.

The Count walked to a writing-table near the
window; opened his desk, and took from it
several quires of paper and a bundle of quill
pens. He scattered the pens about the table,
so that they might lie ready in all directions to
be taken up when wanted, and then cut the
paper into a heap of narrow slips, of the form
used by professional writers for the press. " I
shall make this a remarkable document," he said,
looking at me over his shoulder. " Habits of
literary composition are perfectly familiar to me.
One of the rarest of all the intellectual
accomplishments that man can possess, is the grand
faculty of arranging his ideas. Immense
privilege! I possess it. Do you?"

He marched backwards and forwards in the
room, until the coffee appeared, humming to
himself, and marking the places at which
obstacles occurred in the arrangement of his ideas,
by striking his forehead, from time to time, with
the palm of his hand. The enormous audacity
with which he seized on the situation in which I
had placed him, and made it the pedestal on
which his vanity mounted for the one cherished
purpose of self-display, mastered my astonishment
by main force. Sincerely as I loathed the
man, the prodigious strength of his character,
even in its most trivial aspects, impressed me in
spite of myself.

The coffee was brought in by Madame Fosco.
He kissed her hand, in grateful acknowledgment,
and escorted her to the door; returned, poured
out a cup of coffee for himself, and took it to
the writing-table.

"May I offer you some coffee, Mr. Hartright?"
he said, before he sat down.

I declined.

"What! you think I shall poison you?" he
said, gaily. " The English intellect is sound, so
far as it goes," he continued, seating himself at
the table; " but it has one grave defect—it is
always cautious in the wrong place."

He dipped his pen in the ink; placed the first
slip of paper before him, with a thump of his.