“Take my word for it, Laura, that man knows something of Sir Percival’s embarrassments,” I said, as we returned the Count’s salutation from a safe distance.

“What makes you think that?” she asked.

“How should he have known, otherwise, that Mr. Merriman was Sir Percival’s solicitor?” I rejoined.  “Besides, when I followed you out of the luncheon-room, he told me, without a single word of inquiry on my part, that something had happened.  Depend upon it, he knows more than we do.”

“Don’t ask him any questions if he does.  Don’t take him into our confidence!”

“You seem to dislike him, Laura, in a very determined manner.  What has he said or done to justify you?”

“Nothing, Marian.  On the contrary, he was all kindness and attention on our journey home, and he several times checked Sir Percival’s outbreaks of temper, in the most considerate manner towards me.  Perhaps I dislike him because he has so much more power over my husband than I have.  Perhaps it hurts my pride to be under any obligations to his interference.  All I know is, that I do dislike him.”

The rest of the day and evening passed quietly enough.  The Count and I played at chess.  For the first two games he politely allowed me to conquer him, and then, when he saw that I had found him out, begged my pardon, and at the third game checkmated me in ten minutes.  Sir Percival never once referred, all through the evening, to the lawyer’s visit.  But either that event, or something else, had produced a singular alteration for the better in him.  He was as polite and agreeable to all of us, as he used to be in the days of his probation at Limmeridge, and he was so amazingly attentive and kind to his wife, that even icy Madame Fosco was roused into looking at him with a grave surprise.  What does this mean?  I think I can guess—­I am afraid Laura can guess—­ and I am sure Count Fosco knows.  I caught Sir Percival looking at him for approval more than once in the course of the evening.

June 17th.—­A day of events.  I most fervently hope I may not have to add, a day of disasters as well.

Sir Percival was as silent at breakfast as he had been the evening before, on the subject of the mysterious “arrangement” (as the lawyer called it) which is hanging over our heads.  An hour afterwards, however, he suddenly entered the morning-room, where his wife and I were waiting, with our hats on, for Madame Fosco to join us, and inquired for the Count.

“We expect to see him here directly,” I said.

“The fact is,” Sir Percival went on, walking nervously about the room, “I want Fosco and his wife in the library, for a mere business formality, and I want you there, Laura, for a minute too.”  He stopped, and appeared to notice, for the first time, that we were in our walking costume.  “Have you just come in?” he asked, “or were you just going out?”

“We were all thinking of going to the lake this morning,” said Laura.  “But if you have any other arrangement to propose——­”