When I had done, and had sealed and directed the two envelopes, I went back with the letters to Laura’s room, to show her that they were written.

“Has anybody disturbed you?” I asked, when she opened the door to me.

“Nobody has knocked,” she replied.  “But I heard some one in the outer room.”

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“A woman.  I heard the rustling of her gown.”

“A rustling like silk?”

“Yes, like silk.”

Madame Fosco had evidently been watching outside.  The mischief she might do by herself was little to be feared.  But the mischief she might do, as a willing instrument in her husband’s hands, was too formidable to be overlooked.

“What became of the rustling of the gown when you no longer heard it in the ante-room?” I inquired.  “Did you hear it go past your wall, along the passage?”

“Yes.  I kept still and listened, and just heard it.”

“Which way did it go?”

“Towards your room.”

I considered again.  The sound had not caught my ears.  But I was then deeply absorbed in my letters, and I write with a heavy hand and a quill pen, scraping and scratching noisily over the paper.  It was more likely that Madame Fosco would hear the scraping of my pen than that I should hear the rustling of her dress.  Another reason (if I had wanted one) for not trusting my letters to the post-bag in the hall.

Laura saw me thinking.  “More difficulties!” she said wearily; “more difficulties and more dangers!”

“No dangers,” I replied.  “Some little difficulty, perhaps.  I am thinking of the safest way of putting my two letters into Fanny’s hands.”

“You have really written them, then?  Oh, Marian, run no risks—­ pray, pray run no risks!”

“No, no—­no fear.  Let me see—­what o’clock is it now?”

It was a quarter to six.  There would be time for me to get to the village inn, and to come back again before dinner.  If I waited till the evening I might find no second opportunity of safely leaving the house.

“Keep the key turned in the lock.  Laura,” I said, “and don’t be afraid about me.  If you hear any inquiries made, call through the door, and say that I am gone out for a walk.”

“When shall you be back?”

“Before dinner, without fail.  Courage, my love.  By this time to-morrow you will have a clear-headed, trustworthy man acting for your good.  Mr. Gilmore’s partner is our next best friend to Mr. Gilmore himself.”

A moment’s reflection, as soon as I was alone, convinced me that I had better not appear in my walking-dress until I had first discovered what was going on in the lower part of the house.  I had not ascertained yet whether Sir Percival was indoors or out.