I considered again. The sound had not caught my ears. But I was then deeply absorbed in my letters, and I write with a heavy hand and a quill pen, scraping and scratching noisily over the paper. It was more likely that Madame Fosco would hear the scraping of my pen than that I should hear the rustling of her dress. Another reason (if I had wanted one) for not trusting my letters to the postbag in the hall.

Laura saw me thinking. “More difficulties!” she said wearily; “more difficulties and more dangers!”

“No dangers,” I replied. “Some little difficulty, perhaps. I am thinking of the safest way of putting my two letters into Fanny’s hands.”

“You have really written them, then? Oh, Marian, run no risks⁠—pray, pray run no risks!”

“No, no⁠—no fear. Let me see⁠—what o’clock is it now?”