The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe

“Have you and Lady Glyde been out this evening?” asked the Count, while I was taking a book from the shelves to preserve appearances. “Yes, we went out to get a little air.” “May I ask in what direction?” “In the direction of the lake⁠—as far as the boathouse.” “Aha? As far as the boathouse?” Under other circumstances I might have resented his curiosity. But tonight I hailed it as another proof that neither he nor his wife were connected with the mysterious appearance at the lake. “No more adventures, I suppose, this evening?” he went on. “No more discoveries, like your discovery of the wounded dog?” He fixed his unfathomable grey eyes on me, with that cold, clear, irresistible glitter in them which always forces me to look at him, and always makes me uneasy while I do look. An unutterable suspicion that his mind is prying into mine overcomes me at these times, and it overcame me now. “No,” I said shortly; “no adventures⁠—no discoveries.” I tried to look away from him and leave the room. Strange as it seems, I hardly think I should have succeeded in the attempt if Madame Fosco had not helped me by causing him to move and look away first.