For the same reason I have said nothing here of the consolation that I found in Pesca’s brotherly affection for me, when I saw him again after the sudden cessation of my residence at Limmeridge House.  I have not recorded the fidelity with which my warm-hearted little friend followed me to the place of embarkation when I sailed for Central America, or the noisy transport of joy with which he received me when we next met in London.  If I had felt justified in accepting the offers of service which he made to me on my return, he would have appeared again long ere this.  But, though I knew that his honour and his courage were to be implicitly relied on, I was not so sure that his discretion was to be trusted, and, for that reason only, I followed the course of all my inquiries alone.  It will now be sufficiently understood that Pesca was not separated from all connection with me and my interests, although he has hitherto been separated from all connection with the progress of this narrative.  He was as true and as ready a friend of mine still as ever he had been in his life.

Before I summoned Pesca to my assistance it was necessary to see for myself what sort of man I had to deal with.  Up to this time I had never once set eyes on Count Fosco.

Three days after my return with Laura and Marian to London, I set forth alone for Forest Road, St. John’s Wood, between ten and eleven o’clock in the morning.  It was a fine day—­I had some hours to spare—­and I thought it likely, if I waited a little for him, that the Count might be tempted out.  I had no great reason to fear the chance of his recognising me in the daytime, for the only occasion when I had been seen by him was the occasion on which he had followed me home at night.

No one appeared at the windows in the front of the house.  I walked down a turning which ran past the side of it, and looked over the low garden wall.  One of the back windows on the lower floor was thrown up and a net was stretched across the opening.  I saw nobody, but I heard, in the room, first a shrill whistling and singing of birds, then the deep ringing voice which Marian’s description had made familiar to me.  “Come out on my little finger, my pret-pret-pretties!” cried the voice.  “Come out and hop upstairs!  One, two, three—­and up!  Three, two, one—­and down!  One, two, three—­twit-twit-twit-tweet!” The Count was exercising his canaries as he used to exercise them in Marian’s time at Blackwater Park.

I waited a little while, and the singing and the whistling ceased.  “Come, kiss me, my pretties!” said the deep voice.  There was a responsive twittering and chirping—­a low, oily laugh—­a silence of a minute or so, and then I heard the opening of the house door.  I turned and retraced my steps.  The magnificent melody of the Prayer in Rossini’s Moses, sung in a sonorous bass voice, rose grandly through the suburban silence of the place.  The front garden gate opened and closed.  The Count had come out.