Sir Percival looked up with a frown and an oath.

“You are taking a tone with me that I don’t like,” he said.  “A tone I won’t bear from any man.”

“I am advising you for your good,” returned the Count, with a smile of quiet contempt.  “Give yourself time—­give Lady Glyde time.  Have you forgotten that your dog-cart is waiting at the door?  My tone surprises you—­ha?  I dare say it does—­it is the tone of a man who can keep his temper.  How many doses of good advice have I given you in my time?  More than you can count.  Have I ever been wrong?  I defy you to quote me an instance of it.  Go! take your drive.  The matter of the signature can wait till to-morrow.  Let it wait—­and renew it when you come back.”

Sir Percival hesitated and looked at his watch.  His anxiety about the secret journey which he was to take that day, revived by the Count’s words, was now evidently disputing possession of his mind with his anxiety to obtain Laura’s signature.  He considered for a little while, and then got up from his chair.

“It is easy to argue me down,” he said, “when I have no time to answer you.  I will take your advice, Fosco—­not because I want it, or believe in it, but because I can’t stop here any longer.”  He paused, and looked round darkly at his wife.  “If you don’t give me your signature when I come back to-morrow!” The rest was lost in the noise of his opening the book-case cupboard again, and locking up the parchment once more.  He took his hat and gloves off the table, and made for the door.  Laura and I drew back to let him pass.  “Remember to-morrow!” he said to his wife, and went out.

We waited to give him time to cross the hall and drive away.  The Count approached us while we were standing near the door.

“You have just seen Percival at his worst, Miss Halcombe,” he said.  “As his old friend, I am sorry for him and ashamed of him.  As his old friend, I promise you that he shall not break out to-morrow in the same disgraceful manner in which he has broken out to-day.”

Laura had taken my arm while he was speaking and she pressed it significantly when he had done.  It would have been a hard trial to any woman to stand by and see the office of apologist for her husband’s misconduct quietly assumed by his male friend in her own house—­and it was a trial to her.  I thanked the Count civilly, and let her out.  Yes!  I thanked him:  for I felt already, with a sense of inexpressible helplessness and humiliation, that it was either his interest or his caprice to make sure of my continuing to reside at Blackwater Park, and I knew after Sir Percival’s conduct to me, that without the support of the Count’s influence, I could not hope to remain there.  His influence, the influence of all others that I dreaded most, was actually the one tie which now held me to Laura in the hour of her utmost need!

We heard the wheels of the dog-cart crashing on the gravel of the drive as we came into the hall.  Sir Percival had started on his journey.