I parted with my chance companion at Knowlesbury, and went at once to the town-hall.  As I had anticipated, no one was present to prosecute the case against me—­the necessary formalities were observed, and I was discharged.  On leaving the court a letter from Mr. Dawson was put into my hand.  It informed me that he was absent on professional duty, and it reiterated the offer I had already received from him of any assistance which I might require at his hands.  I wrote back, warmly acknowledging my obligations to his kindness, and apologising for not expressing my thanks personally, in consequence of my immediate recall on pressing business to town.

Half an hour later I was speeding back to London by the express train.

II

It was between nine and ten o’clock before I reached Fulham, and found my way to Gower’s Walk.

Both Laura and Marian came to the door to let me in.  I think we had hardly known how close the tie was which bound us three together, until the evening came which united us again.  We met as if we had been parted for months instead of for a few days only.  Marian’s face was sadly worn and anxious.  I saw who had known all the danger and borne all the trouble in my absence the moment I looked at her.  Laura’s brighter looks and better spirits told me how carefully she had been spared all knowledge of the dreadful death at Welmingham, and of the true reason of our change of abode.

The stir of the removal seemed to have cheered and interested her.  She only spoke of it as a happy thought of Marian’s to surprise me on my return with a change from the close, noisy street to the pleasant neighbourhood of trees and fields and the river.  She was full of projects for the future—­of the drawings she was to finish—­of the purchasers I had found in the country who were to buy them—­of the shillings and sixpences she had saved, till her purse was so heavy that she proudly asked me to weigh it in my own hand.  The change for the better which had been wrought in her during the few days of my absence was a surprise to me for which I was quite unprepared—­and for all the unspeakable happiness of seeing it, I was indebted to Marian’s courage and to Marian’s love.

When Laura had left us, and when we could speak to one another without restraint, I tried to give some expression to the gratitude and the admiration which filled my heart.  But the generous creature would not wait to hear me.  That sublime self-forgetfulness of women, which yields so much and asks so little, turned all her thoughts from herself to me.

“I had only a moment left before post-time,” she said, “or I should have written less abruptly.  You look worn and weary, Walter.  I am afraid my letter must have seriously alarmed you?”

“Only at first,” I replied.  “My mind was quieted, Marian, by my trust in you.  Was I right in attributing this sudden change of place to some threatened annoyance on the part of Count Fosco?”