The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe

“Drop it, Fosco!” “Let us say your wife dies⁠—” “Drop it, I tell you!” “In that case, you would gain twenty thousand pounds, and you would lose⁠—” “I should lose the chance of three thousand a year.” “The remote chance, Percival⁠—the remote chance only. And you want money, at once. In your position the gain is certain⁠—the loss doubtful.” “Speak for yourself as well as for me. Some of the money I want has been borrowed for you . And if you come to gain, my wife’s death would be ten thousand pounds in your wife’s pocket. Sharp as you are, you seem to have conveniently forgotten Madame Fosco’s legacy. Don’t look at me in that way! I won’t have it! What with your looks and your questions, upon my soul, you make my flesh creep!” “Your flesh? Does flesh mean conscience in English? I speak of your wife’s death as I speak of a possibility. Why not? The respectable lawyers who scribble-scrabble your deeds and your wills look the deaths of living people in the face. Do lawyers make your flesh creep? Why should I? It is my business tonight to clear up your position beyond the possibility of mistake, and I have now done it. Here is your position. If your wife lives, you pay those bills with her signature to the parchment. If your wife dies, you pay them with her death.”