There were two men at the corner of the
square who had stopped also, and who were
standing talking together. After a moment's
reflection, I turned back, so as to pass them.
One moved, as I came near, and turned the
corner, leading from the square, into the street.
The other remained stationary. I looked at
him, as I passed, and instantly recognised one of
the men who had watched me before I left
England.

If I had been free to follow my own instincts,
I should probably have begun by speaking to the
man, and have ended by knocking him down.
But I was bound to consider consequences. If
I once placed myself publicly in the wrong, I
put the weapons at once into Sir Percival's
hands. There was no choice but to oppose
cunning by cunning. I turned into the street
down which the second man had disappeared,
and passed him, waiting in a doorway. He was
a stranger to me; and I was glad to make sure
of his personal appearance, in case of future
annoyance. Having done this, I again walked
northward, till I reached the New-road. There,
I turned aside to the west (having the men
behind me all the time), and waited at a point
where I knew myself to be at some distance
from a cab-stand, until a fast two-wheel cab,
empty, should happen to pass me. One passed
in a few minutes. I jumped in, and told the
man to drive rapidly towards Hyde Park,
There was no second fast cab for the spies
behind me. I saw them dart across to the
other side of the road, to follow me by running,
until a cab, or a cabstand, came in their way.
But I had the start of them; and when I stopped
the driver, and got out, they were nowhere in
sight. I crossed Hyde Park, and made sure, on
the open ground, that I was free. When I at
last turned my steps homeward, it was not till
many hours later—not till after dark.

I found Marian waiting for me, alone in the
little sitting-room. She had persuaded Laura
to go to rest, after first promising to show me
her drawing, the moment I came in. The poor
little dim faint sketch—so trifling in itself, so
touching in its associations—was propped up
carefully on the table with two books, and was
placed where the faint light of the one candle
we allowed ourselves might fall on it to the best
advantage. I sat down to look at the drawing,
and to tell Marian, in whispers, what had
happened. The partition which divided us from the
next room was so thin that we could almost hear
Laura's breathing, and we might have disturbed
her if we had spoken aloud.

Marian preserved her composure while I
described my interview with Mr. Kyrle. But her
face became troubled when I spoke next of the
men who had followed me from the lawyer's
office, and when I told her of the discovery of
Sir Percival's return.

"Bad news, Walter," she said; "the worst
news you could bring. Have you nothing more
to tell me?"

"I have something to give you," I replied.
handing her the note which Mr. Kyrle had
confided to my care.

She looked at the address, and recognised the
handwriting instantly.

"You know your correspondent?" I said.

"Too well," she answered. "My
correspondent is Count Fosco."

With that reply she opened the note. Her
face flushed deeply while she read it—her eyes
brightened with anger, as she handed it to me
to read in my turn.

The note contained these lines:

"Impelled by honourable admiration—
honourable to myself, honourable to you—I write,
magnificent Marian, in the interests of your
tranquillity, to say two consoling words:

"Fear nothing!

"Exercise your fine natural sense, and remain
in retirement. Dear and admirable woman!
invite no dangerous publicity. Resignation is
sublime—adopt it. The modest repose of home
is eternally fresh—enjoy it. The Storms of life
pass harmless over the valley of Seclusion—
dwell, dear lady, in the valley.

"Do this; and I authorise you to fear
nothing. No new calamity shall lacerate your
sensibilities—sensibilities precious to me as my
own. You shall not be molested; the fair
companion of your retreat shall not be pursued.
She has found a new asylum, in your heart.
Priceless asylum!—I envy her, and leave her
there.

"One last word of affectionate warning, of
paternal caution—and I tear myself from the
charm of addressing you; I close these fervent
lines.

"Advance no farther than you have gone
already; compromise no serious interests;
threaten nobody. Do not, I implore you, force
me into action—ME, the Man of Action—when
it is the cherished object of my ambition to be
passive, to restrict the vast reach of my energies
and my combinations, for your sake. If you
have rash friends, moderate their deplorable
ardour. If Mr. Hartright returns to England,
hold no communication with him. I walk on a
path of my own; and Percival follows at my
heels. On the day when Mr. Hartright crosses
that path, he is a lost man."

The only signature to these lines was the
initial letter F, surrounded by a circle of intricate
flourishes. I threw the letter on the table, with
all the contempt that I felt for it.

"He is trying to frighten you—a sure sign
that he is frightened himself," I said.

She was too genuine a woman to treat the
letter as I treated it. The insolent familiarity
of the language was too much for her self-
control. As she looked at me across the table,
her hands clenched themselves in her lap, and
the old quick fiery temper flamed out again,
brightly, in her cheeks and her eyes.

"Walter!" she said, "if ever those two men
are at your mercy, and if you are obliged to
spare one of them—don't let it be the Count."