wait to hear me. That sublime self-forgetfulness of women, which yields so much and asks so little, turned all her thoughts from herself to me.
“I had only a moment left before post-time,” she said, “or I should have written less abruptly. You look worn and weary, Walter. I am afraid my letter must have seriously alarmed you?”
“Only at first,” I replied. “My mind was quieted, Marian, by my trust in you. Was I right in attributing this sudden change of place to some threatened annoyance on the part of Count Fosco?”
“Perfectly right,” she said. “I saw him yesterday, and worse than that, Walter—I spoke to him.”
“Spoke to him? Did he know where we lived? Did he come to the house?”
“He did. To the house—but not upstairs. Laura never saw him—Laura suspects nothing. I will tell you how it happened: the danger, I believe and hope, is over now. Yesterday, I was in the sitting-room, at our old lodgings. Laura was drawing at the table, and I was walking about and setting things to rights. I passed the window, and as I passed it, looked out into the street. There, on the opposite side of the way, I saw the Count, with a man talking to him—”
“Did he notice you at the window?”
“No—at least, I thought not. I was too violently startled to be quite sure.”
“Who was the other man? A stranger?”
“Not a stranger, Walter. As soon as I could draw my breath again, I recognised him. He was the owner of the lunatic asylum.”