to the Zoological Gardens of London. The
Document that describes them shall be drawn
out on the spot."

He began to write, repeating the words as
they flowed from his pen.

"Number One. Cockatoo of transcendant
plumage: attraction, of himself, to all visitors
of taste. Number Two. Canaries of unrivalled
vivacity and intelligence: worthy of the garden
of Eden, worthy also of the garden in the
Regent's Park. Homage to British Zoology.
Offered by Fosco."

The pen spluttered again; and the flourish
was attached to his signature.

"Count! you have not included the mice,"
said Madame Fosco.

He left the table, took her hand, and placed
it on his heart.

"All human resolution, Eleanor," he said,
solemnly, "has its limits. My limits are
inscribed on that Document. I cannot part
with my white mice. Bear with me, my angel,
and remove them to their travelling-cage,
upstairs."

"Admirable tenderness!" said Madame Fosco,
admiring her husband, with a last viperish look
in my direction. She took up the cage
carefully; and left the room.

The Count looked at his watch. In spite of
his resolute assumption of composure, he was
getting anxious for the agent's arrival. The
candles had long since been extinguished; and
the sunlight of the new morning poured into the
room. It was not till five minutes past seven
that the gate bell rang, and the agent made his
appearance. He was a foreigner, with a dark
beard.

"Mr. Hartright—Monsieur Rubelle," said
the Count, introducing us. He took the agent
(a foreign spy, in every line of his face, if ever
there was one yet) into a corner of the room;
whispered some directions to him; and then left
us together. " Monsieur Rubelle," as soon as
we were alone, suggested, with great politeness,
that I should favour him with his instructions.
I wrote two lines to Pesca, authorising him
to deliver my sealed letter "to the Bearer;"
directed the note; and handed it to Monsieur
Rubelle.

The agent waited with me till his employer
returned, equipped in travelling costume. The
Count examined the address of my letter before
he dismissed the agent. " I thought so!"
he said, turning on me, with a dark look,
and altering again in his manner from that
moment.

He completed his packing; and then sat
consulting a travelling map, making entries in his
pocket-book, and looking, every now and then,
impatiently at his watch. Not another word,
addressed to myself, passed his lips. The near
approach of the hour for his departure, and
the proof he had seen of the communication
established between Pesca and myself, had
plainly recalled his whole attention to the
measures that were necessary for securing his
escape.

A little before eight o'clock, Monsieur
Rubelle came back with my unopened letter in his
hand. The Count looked carefully at the
superscription and the seal—lit a candle—and burnt
the letter. " I perform my promise," he said;
"but this matter, Mr. Hartright, shall not end
here."

The agent had kept at the door the cab in
which he had returned. He and the maid-
servant now busied themselves in removing the
luggage. Madame Fosco came downstairs,
thickly veiled, with the travelling-cage of the
white mice in her hand. She neither spoke to
me, nor looked towards me. Her husband
escorted her to the cab. " Follow me, as
far as the passage," he whispered in my ear;
" I may want to speak to you at the last moment."

I went out to the door; the agent standing
below me in the front garden. The Count came
back alone, and drew me a few steps inside the
passage.

"Remember the Third condition!" he
whispered. " You shall hear from me, Mr. Hartright
—I may claim from you the satisfaction of a
gentleman sooner than you think for." He caught
my hand, before I was aware of him, and wrung
it hard—then turned to the door, stopped, and
came back to me again.

"One word more," he said, confidentially.
" When I last saw Miss Halcombe, she looked
thin and ill. I am anxious about that admirable
woman. Take care of her, sir! With my hand
on my heart, I solemnly implore you—take care
of Miss Halcombe!"

Those were the last words he said to me,
before he squeezed his huge body into the cab,
and drove off.

The agent and I waited at the door a few
moments, looking after him. While we were
standing together, a second cab appeared from
a turning a little way down the road. It
followed the direction previously taken by the
Count's cab; and, as it passed, the house and
the open garden gate, a person inside looked at
us out of the window. The stranger at the
Opera again!—the light-haired foreigner with
the scar on his left cheek!

"You wait here with me, sir, for half an hour
more?" said Monsieur Rubelle.

"I do."

We returned to the sitting-room. I was in
no humour to speak to the agent, or to allow
him to speak to me. I took out the papers
which the Count had placed in my hands; and
read the terrible story of the conspiracy told
by the man who had planned and perpetratted
it.

————————————————————————

IN pursuance of the plan announced at the
commencement of THE WOMAN IN WHITE, we
have the pleasure of presenting to the reader a
New Story by CHARLES LEVER. After the
completion of The Woman in White next week,
A DAY'S RIDE: A LIFE'S ROMANCE, will occupy