Marian preserved her composure while I described my interview with Mr. Kyrle.  But her face became troubled when I spoke next of the men who had followed me from the lawyer’s office, and when I told her of the discovery of Sir Percival’s return.

“Bad news, Walter,” she said, “the worst news you could bring.  Have you nothing more to tell me?”

“I have something to give you,” I replied, handing her the note which Mr. Kyrle had confided to my care.

She looked at the address and recognised the handwriting instantly.

“You know your correspondent?” I said.

“Too well,” she answered.  “My correspondent is Count Fosco.”

With that reply she opened the note.  Her face flushed deeply while she read it—­her eyes brightened with anger as she handed it to me to read in my turn.

The note contained these lines—­

“Impelled by honourable admiration—­honourable to myself, honourable to you—­I write, magnificent Marian, in the interests of your tranquillity, to say two consoling words—­

“Fear nothing!

“Exercise your fine natural sense and remain in retirement.  Dear and admirable woman, invite no dangerous publicity.  Resignation is sublime—­adopt it.  The modest repose of home is eternally fresh—­enjoy it.  The storms of life pass harmless over the valley of Seclusion—­dwell, dear lady, in the valley.

“Do this and I authorise you to fear nothing.  No new calamity shall lacerate your sensibilities—­sensibilities precious to me as my own.  You shall not be molested, the fair companion of your retreat shall not be pursued.  She has found a new asylum in your heart.  Priceless asylum!—­I envy her and leave her there.

“One last word of affectionate warning, of paternal caution, and I tear myself from the charm of addressing you—­I close these fervent lines.

“Advance no farther than you have gone already, compromise no serious interests, threaten nobody.  Do not, I implore you, force me into action—­me, the Man of Action—­when it is the cherished object of my ambition to be passive, to restrict the vast reach of my energies and my combinations for your sake.  If you have rash friends, moderate their deplorable ardour.  If Mr. Hartright returns to England, hold no communication with him.  I walk on a path of my own, and Percival follows at my heels.  On the day when Mr. Hartright crosses that path, he is a lost man.”

The only signature to these lines was the initial letter F, surrounded by a circle of intricate flourishes.  I threw the letter on the table with all the contempt that I felt for it.

“He is trying to frighten you—­a sure sign that he is frightened himself,” I said.

She was too genuine a woman to treat the letter as I treated it.  The insolent familiarity of the language was too much for her self-control.  As she looked at me across the table, her hands clenched themselves in her lap, and the old quick fiery temper flamed out again brightly in her cheeks and her eyes.