“A rustling like silk?”

“Yes, like silk.”

Madame Fosco had evidently been watching outside. The mischief she might do by herself was little to be feared. But the mischief she might do, as a willing instrument in her husband’s hands, was too formidable to be overlooked.

“What became of the rustling of the gown when you no longer heard it in the anteroom?” I inquired. “Did you hear it go past your wall, along the passage?”

“Yes. I kept still and listened, and just heard it.”

“Which way did it go?”

“Towards your room.”