He had committed his offence, as I had supposed him to have committed it, and the absence of all reference, on Mrs. Catherick’s part, to the duplicate register at Knowlesbury, strengthened my previous conviction that the existence of the book, and the risk of detection which it implied, must have been necessarily unknown to Sir Percival.  My interest in the question of the forgery was now at an end, and my only object in keeping the letter was to make it of some future service in clearing up the last mystery that still remained to baffle me—­the parentage of Anne Catherick on the father’s side.  There were one or two sentences dropped in her mother’s narrative, which it might be useful to refer to again, when matters of more immediate importance allowed me leisure to search for the missing evidence.  I did not despair of still finding that evidence, and I had lost none of my anxiety to discover it, for I had lost none of my interest in tracing the father of the poor creature who now lay at rest in Mrs. Fairlie’s grave.

Accordingly, I sealed up the letter and put it away carefully in my pocket-book, to be referred to again when the time came.

The next day was my last in Hampshire.  When I had appeared again before the magistrate at Knowlesbury, and when I had attended at the adjourned inquest, I should be free to return to London by the afternoon or the evening train.

My first errand in the morning was, as usual, to the post-office.  The letter from Marian was there, but I thought when it was handed to me that it felt unusually light.  I anxiously opened the envelope.  There was nothing inside but a small strip of paper folded in two.  The few blotted hurriedly-written lines which were traced on it contained these words: 

“Come back as soon as you can.  I have been obliged to move.  Come to Gower’s Walk, Fulham (number five).  I will be on the look-out for you.  Don’t be alarmed about us, we are both safe and well.  But come back.—­Marian.”

The news which those lines contained—­news which I instantly associated with some attempted treachery on the part of Count Fosco—­fairly overwhelmed me.  I stood breathless with the paper crumpled up in my hand.  What had happened?  What subtle wickedness had the Count planned and executed in my absence?  A night had passed since Marian’s note was written—­hours must elapse still before I could get back to them—­some new disaster might have happened already of which I was ignorant.  And here, miles and miles away from them, here I must remain—­held, doubly held, at the disposal of the law!

I hardly know to what forgetfulness of my obligations anxiety and alarm might not have tempted me, but for the quieting influence of my faith in Marian.  My absolute reliance on her was the one earthly consideration which helped me to restrain myself, and gave me courage to wait.  The inquest was the first of the impediments in the way of my freedom of action.  I attended it at the appointed time, the legal formalities requiring my presence in the room, but as it turned out, not calling on me to repeat my evidence.  This useless delay was a hard trial, although I did my best to quiet my impatience by following the course of the proceedings as closely as I could.