Towards midday I went downstairs to attend to some of my regular duties.  An hour afterwards, on my way back to the sick-room, I saw the Count (who had gone out again early, for the third time) entering the hall, to all appearance in the highest good spirits.  Sir Percival, at the same moment, put his head out of the library door, and addressed his noble friend, with extreme eagerness, in these words—­

“Have you found her?”

His lordship’s large face became dimpled all over with placid smiles, but he made no reply in words.  At the same time Sir Percival turned his head, observed that I was approaching the stairs, and looked at me in the most rudely angry manner possible.

“Come in here and tell me about it,” he said to the Count.  “Whenever there are women in a house they’re always sure to be going up or down stairs.”

“My dear Percival,” observed his lordship kindly, “Mrs. Michelson has duties.  Pray recognise her admirable performance of them as sincerely as I do!  How is the sufferer, Mrs. Michelson?”

“No better, my lord, I regret to say.”

“Sad—­most sad!” remarked the Count.  “You look fatigued, Mrs. Michelson.  It is certainly time you and my wife had some help in nursing.  I think I may be the means of offering you that help.  Circumstances have happened which will oblige Madame Fosco to travel to London either to-morrow or the day after.  She will go away in the morning and return at night, and she will bring back with her, to relieve you, a nurse of excellent conduct and capacity, who is now disengaged.  The woman is known to my wife as a person to be trusted.  Before she comes here say nothing about her, if you please, to the doctor, because he will look with an evil eye on any nurse of my providing.  When she appears in this house she will speak for herself, and Mr. Dawson will be obliged to acknowledge that there is no excuse for not employing her.  Lady Glyde will say the same.  Pray present my best respects and sympathies to Lady Glyde.”

I expressed my grateful acknowledgments for his lordship’s kind consideration.  Sir Percival cut them short by calling to his noble friend (using, I regret to say, a profane expression) to come into the library, and not to keep him waiting there any longer.

I proceeded upstairs.  We are poor erring creatures, and however well established a woman’s principles may be she cannot always keep on her guard against the temptation to exercise an idle curiosity.  I am ashamed to say that an idle curiosity, on this occasion, got the better of my principles, and made me unduly inquisitive about the question which Sir Percival had addressed to his noble friend at the library door.  Who was the Count expected to find in the course of his studious morning rambles at Blackwater Park?  A woman, it was to be presumed, from the terms of Sir Percival’s inquiry.  I did not suspect the Count of any impropriety—­I knew his moral character too well.  The only question I asked myself was—­Had he found her?