terrible necessity for lacerating those sympathies,
by referring to domestic events of a very melancholy
kind. What is the inevitable consequence? I have
done myself the honour of pointing it out to you,
already. I sit confused."

Was it at this point that I began to suspect
he was going to bore me? I rather think it was.

"Is it absolutely necessary to refer to these
unpleasant matters?" I inquired. "In our
homely English phrase, Count Fosco, won't they
keep?"

The Count, with the most alarming solemnity,
sighed and shook his head.

"Must I really hear them?"

He shrugged his shoulders (it was the first
foreign thing he had done, since he had been in
the room ; and looked at me in an unpleasantly
penetrating manner. My instincts told me that
I had better close my eyes. I obeyed my
instincts.

"Please, break it gently," I pleaded. "Anybody dead?"

"Dead!" cried the Count, with unnecessary
foreign fierceness. "Mr. Fairlie! your national
composure terrifies me. In the name of Heaven,
what have I said, or done, to make you think
me the messenger of death?"

"Pray accept my apologies," I answered.
"You have said and done nothing. I make it
a rule, in these distressing cases, always to
anticipate the worst. It breaks the blow, by
meeting it half way, and so on. Inexpressibly
relieved, I am sure, to hear that nobody is dead.
Anybody ill?"

I opened my eyes, and looked at him. Was
he very yellow, when he came in? or had he
turned very yellow, in the last minute or two?
I really can't say; and I can't ask Louis, because
he was not in the room at the time.

"Anybody ill?" I repeated; observing that
my national composure still appeared to affect
him.

"That is part of my bad news, Mr. Fairlie.
Yes. Somebody is ill."

"Grieved, I am sure. Which of them is it?"

"To my profound sorrow, Miss Halcombe.
Perhaps you were in some degree prepared to
hear this? Perhaps, when you found that Miss
Halcombe did not come here by herself, as you
proposed, and did not write a second time, your
affectionate anxiety may have made you fear that
she was ill?"

I have no doubt my affectionate anxiety had
led to that melancholy apprehension, at some
time or other; but, at the moment, my wretched
memory entirely failed to remind me of the
circumstance. However, I said, Yes, in justice to
myself. I was much shocked. It was so very
uncharacteristic of such a robust person as dear
Marian to be ill, that I could only suppose she
had met with an accident. A horse, or a false
step on the stairs, or something of that sort.

"Is it serious?" I asked.

"Serious – beyond a doubt," he replied.
"Dangerous – I hope and trust not. Miss Halcombe
unhappily exposed herself to be wetted
through by a heavy rain. The cold that followed
was of an aggravated kind; and it has now
brought with it the worst consequence — Fever."

When I heard the word, Fever, and when I
remembered, at the same moment, that the
unscrupulous person who was now addressing me
had just come from Blackwater Park, I thought
I should have fainted on the spot.

"Good God!" I said. "Is it infectious?"

"Not at present," he answered, with detestable
composure. "It may turn to infection—
but no such deplorable complication had taken
place when I left Blackwater Park. I have felt
the deepest interest in the case, Mr. Fairlie— I
have endeavoured to assist the regular medical
attendant in watching it — accept my personal
assurances of the uninfectious nature of the
fever, when I last saw it."

Accept his assurances! I never was farther
from accepting anything in my life. I would
not have believed him on his oath. He was too
yellow to be believed. He looked like a walking-
West-lndian-epidemic. He was big enough to
carry typhus by the ton, and to dye the very
carpet he walked on with scarlet fever. In
certain emergencies, my mind is remarkably soon
made up. I instantly determined to get rid of
him.

"You will kindly excuse an invalid," I said—
"but long conferences of any kind invariably
upset me. May I beg to know exactly what
the object is to which I am indebted for the
honour of your visit?"

I fervently hoped that this remarkably broad
hint would throw him off his balance — confuse
him — reduce him to polite apologies — in short,
get him out of the room. On the contrary, it
only settled him in his chair. He became additionally
solemn and dignified and confidential.
He held up two of his horrid fingers, and gave
me another of his unpleasantly penetrating
looks. What was I to do? I was not strong
enough to quarrel with him. Conceive my
situation, if you please. Is language adequate
to describe it? I think not.

"The objects of my visit," he went on, quite
irrepressibly, "are numbered on my fingers.
They are two. First, I come to bear my testimony,
with profound sorrow, to the lamentable
disagreements between Sir Percival and Lady
Glyde. I am Sir Percival's oldest friend; I am
related to Lady Glyde by marriage; I am an
eye-witness of all that has happened at Blackwater
Park. In those three capacities I speak
with authority, with confidence, with honourable
regret. Sir! I inform you, as the head of
Lady Glyde's family, that Miss Halcombe has
exaggerated nothing in the letter that she wrote
to your address. I affirm that the remedy
which that admirable lady has proposed, is the
only remedy that will spare you the horrors of
public scandal. A temporary separation between
husband and wife is the one peaceable
solution of this difficulty. Part them for the
present; and when all causes of irritation are
removed, I, who have now the honour of
addressing you –  I will undertake to bring Sir
Percival to reason. Lady Glyde is innocent,