The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe

on my side. Laura’s eagerness to know what had passed downstairs proved, however, too strong to be resisted. She persistently repeated her inquiries. “The Count, of course,” I answered impatiently. “Whose influence in the house⁠—” She stopped me with a gesture of disgust. “Don’t speak of him,” she cried. “The Count is the vilest creature breathing! The Count is a miserable spy⁠—!” Before we could either of us say another word we were alarmed by a soft knocking at the door of the bedroom. I had not yet sat down, and I went first to see who it was. When I opened the door Madame Fosco confronted me with my handkerchief in her hand. “You dropped this downstairs, Miss Halcombe,” she said, “and I thought I could bring it to you, as I was passing by to my own room.” Her face, naturally pale, had turned to such a ghastly whiteness that I started at the sight of it. Her hands, so sure and steady at all other times, trembled violently, and her eyes looked wolfishly past me through the open door, and fixed on Laura. She had been listening before she knocked! I saw it in her white face, I saw it in her trembling hands, I saw it in her look at Laura. After waiting an instant she turned from me in silence, and slowly walked away.