shameful conviction of the truth.  The eyes of that monster of wickedness moistened while he was speaking to me—­they did, Walter!  He declared that at the moment of pointing out the house to the doctor, he thought of my misery if I was separated from Laura, of my responsibility if I was called on to answer for effecting her escape, and he risked the worst that you could do to him, the second time, for my sake.  All he asked was that I would remember the sacrifice, and restrain your rashness, in my own interests—­interests which he might never be able to consult again.  I made no such bargain with him—­I would have died first.  But believe him or not, whether it is true or false that he sent the doctor away with an excuse, one thing is certain, I saw the man leave him without so much as a glance at our window, or even at our side of the way.”

“I believe it, Marian.  The best men are not consistent in good—­ why should the worst men be consistent in evil?  At the same time, I suspect him of merely attempting to frighten you, by threatening what he cannot really do.  I doubt his power of annoying us, by means of the owner of the Asylum, now that Sir Percival is dead, and Mrs. Catherick is free from all control.  But let me hear more.  What did the Count say of me?”

“He spoke last of you.  His eyes brightened and hardened, and his manner changed to what I remember it in past times—­to that mixture of pitiless resolution and mountebank mockery which makes it so impossible to fathom him.  ‘Warn Mr. Hartright!’ he said in his loftiest manner.  ’He has a man of brains to deal with, a man who snaps his big fingers at the laws and conventions of society, when he measures himself with me.  If my lamented friend had taken my advice, the business of the inquest would have been with the body of Mr. Hartright.  But my lamented friend was obstinate.  See!  I mourn his loss—­inwardly in my soul, outwardly on my hat.  This trivial crape expresses sensibilities which I summon Mr. Hartright to respect.  They may be transformed to immeasurable enmities if he ventures to disturb them.  Let him be content with what he has got—­with what I leave unmolested, for your sake, to him and to you.  Say to him (with my compliments), if he stirs me, he has Fosco to deal with.  In the English of the Popular Tongue, I inform him—­Fosco sticks at nothing.  Dear lady, good morning.’  His cold grey eyes settled on my face—­he took off his hat solemnly—­bowed, bare-headed—­and left me.”

“Without returning? without saying more last words?”

“He turned at the corner of the street, and waved his hand, and then struck it theatrically on his breast.  I lost sight of him after that.  He disappeared in the opposite direction to our house, and I ran back to Laura.  Before I was indoors again, I had made up my mind that we must go.  The house (especially in your absence) was a place of danger instead of a place of safety, now that the