I thought it right, at this point, to mention that Miss Halcombe had already gone on to Cumberland, according to Sir Percival’s account of the matter.

“I am afraid to believe it!” answered her ladyship.  “I am afraid she is still in that man’s house.  If I am wrong, if she has really gone on to Limmeridge, I am resolved I will not sleep to-morrow night under Count Fosco’s roof.  My dearest friend in the world, next to my sister, lives near London.  You have heard me, you have heard Miss Halcombe, speak of Mrs. Vesey?  I mean to write, and propose to sleep at her house.  I don’t know how I shall get there—­I don’t know how I shall avoid the Count—­but to that refuge I will escape in some way, if my sister has gone to Cumberland.  All I ask of you to do, is to see yourself that my letter to Mrs. Vesey goes to London to-night, as certainly as Sir Percival’s letter goes to Count Fosco.  I have reasons for not trusting the post-bag downstairs.  Will you keep my secret, and help me in this? it is the last favour, perhaps, that I shall ever ask of you.”

I hesitated, I thought it all very strange, I almost feared that her ladyship’s mind had been a little affected by recent anxiety and suffering.  At my own risk, however, I ended by giving my consent.  If the letter had been addressed to a stranger, or to any one but a lady so well known to me by report as Mrs. Vesey, I might have refused.  I thank God—­looking to what happened afterwards—­I thank God I never thwarted that wish, or any other, which Lady Glyde expressed to me, on the last day of her residence at Blackwater Park.

The letter was written and given into my hands.  I myself put it into the post-box in the village that evening.

We saw nothing more of Sir Percival for the rest of the day.

I slept, by Lady Glyde’s own desire, in the next room to hers, with the door open between us.  There was something so strange and dreadful in the loneliness and emptiness of the house, that I was glad, on my side, to have a companion near me.  Her ladyship sat up late, reading letters and burning them, and emptying her drawers and cabinets of little things she prized, as if she never expected to return to Blackwater Park.  Her sleep was sadly disturbed when she at last went to bed—­she cried out in it several times, once so loud that she woke herself.  Whatever her dreams were, she did not think fit to communicate them to me.  Perhaps, in my situation, I had no right to expect that she should do so.  It matters little now.  I was sorry for her, I was indeed heartily sorry for her all the same.

The next day was fine and sunny.  Sir Percival came up, after breakfast, to tell us that the chaise would be at the door at a quarter to twelve—­the train to London stopping at our station at twenty minutes after.  He informed Lady Glyde that he was obliged to go out, but added that he hoped to be back before she left.  If any unforeseen accident delayed him, I was to accompany her to the station, and to take special care that she was in time for the train.  Sir Percival communicated these directions very hastily—­ walking here and there about the room all the time.  Her ladyship looked attentively after him wherever he went.  He never once looked at her in return.