The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe

“Towards your room.” 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?” It was a quarter to six. There would be time for me to get to the village inn, and to come back again before dinner. If I waited till the evening I might find no second opportunity of safely leaving the house. “Keep the key turned in the lock, Laura,” I said, “and don’t be afraid about me. If you hear any inquiries made, call through the door, and say that I am gone out for a walk.” “When shall you be back?”