I passed the dark window of the spare room, trying the leaden roof at each step with my foot before I risked resting my weight on it.  I passed the dark windows of Laura’s room ("God bless her and keep her to-night!").  I passed the dark window of Sir Percival’s room.  Then I waited a moment, knelt down with my hands to support me, and so crept to my position, under the protection of the low wall between the bottom of the lighted window and the verandah roof.

When I ventured to look up at the window itself I found that the top of it only was open, and that the blind inside was drawn down.  While I was looking I saw the shadow of Madame Fosco pass across the white field of the blind—­then pass slowly back again.  Thus far she could not have heard me, or the shadow would surely have stopped at the blind, even if she had wanted courage enough to open the window and look out?

I placed myself sideways against the railing of the verandah—­ first ascertaining, by touching them, the position of the flower-pots on either side of me.  There was room enough for me to sit between them and no more.  The sweet-scented leaves of the flower on my left hand just brushed my cheek as I lightly rested my head against the railing.

The first sounds that reached me from below were caused by the opening or closing (most probably the latter) of three doors in succession—­the doors, no doubt, leading into the hall and into the rooms on each side of the library, which the Count had pledged himself to examine.  The first object that I saw was the red spark again travelling out into the night from under the verandah, moving away towards my window, waiting a moment, and then returning to the place from which it had set out.

“The devil take your restlessness!  When do you mean to sit down?” growled Sir Percival’s voice beneath me.

“Ouf! how hot it is!” said the Count, sighing and puffing wearily.

His exclamation was followed by the scraping of the garden chairs on the tiled pavement under the verandah—­the welcome sound which told me they were going to sit close at the window as usual.  So far the chance was mine.  The clock in the turret struck the quarter to twelve as they settled themselves in their chairs.  I heard Madame Fosco through the open window yawning, and saw her shadow pass once more across the white field of the blind.

Meanwhile, Sir Percival and the Count began talking together below, now and then dropping their voices a little lower than usual, but never sinking them to a whisper.  The strangeness and peril of my situation, the dread, which I could not master, of Madame Fosco’s lighted window, made it difficult, almost impossible, for me, at first, to keep my presence of mind, and to fix my attention solely on the conversation beneath.  For some minutes I could only succeed in gathering the general substance of it.  I understood the Count to say that the one window alight