After soothing the poor girl by a few friendly words, I asked where she proposed to sleep that night.  She replied that she thought of going to the little inn in the village, the landlady of which was a respectable woman, known to the servants at Blackwater Park.  The next morning, by leaving early, she might get back to her friends in Cumberland without stopping in London, where she was a total stranger.

I felt directly that Fanny’s departure offered us a safe means of communication with London and with Limmeridge House, of which it might be very important to avail ourselves.  Accordingly, I told her that she might expect to hear from her mistress or from me in the course of the evening, and that she might depend on our both doing all that lay in our power to help her, under the trial of leaving us for the present.  Those words said, I shook hands with her and went upstairs.

The door which led to Laura’s room was the door of an ante-chamber opening on to the passage.  When I tried it, it was bolted on the inside.

I knocked, and the door was opened by the same heavy, over-grown housemaid whose lumpish insensibility had tried my patience so severely on the day when I found the wounded dog.

I had, since that time, discovered that her name was Margaret Porcher, and that she was the most awkward, slatternly, and obstinate servant in the house.

On opening the door she instantly stepped out to the threshold, and stood grinning at me in stolid silence.

“Why do you stand there?” I said.  “Don’t you see that I want to come in?”

“Ah, but you mustn’t come in,” was the answer, with another and a broader grin still.

“How dare you talk to me in that way?  Stand back instantly!”

She stretched out a great red hand and arm on each side of her, so as to bar the doorway, and slowly nodded her addle head at me.

“Master’s orders,” she said, and nodded again.

I had need of all my self-control to warn me against contesting the matter with her, and to remind me that the next words I had to say must be addressed to her master.  I turned my back on her, and instantly went downstairs to find him.  My resolution to keep my temper under all the irritations that Sir Percival could offer was, by this time, as completely forgotten—­I say so to my shame—­ as if I had never made it.  It did me good, after all I had suffered and suppressed in that house—­it actually did me good to feel how angry I was.

The drawing-room and the breakfast-room were both empty.  I went on to the library, and there I found Sir Percival, the Count, and Madame Fosco.  They were all three standing up, close together, and Sir Percival had a little slip of paper in his hand.  As I opened the door I heard the Count say to him, “No—­a thousand times over, no.”

I walked straight up to him, and looked him full in the face.

“Am I to understand, Sir Percival, that your wife’s room is a prison, and that your housemaid is the gaoler who keeps it?” I asked.