little that had reached my ears was
enough to make me feel uneasy. The "something" that "had happened" was
but too plainly a serious money embarrassment, and Sir Percival's
relief from it depended upon Laura. The prospect of seeing her
involved in her husband's secret difficulties filled me with dismay,
exaggerated, no doubt, by my ignorance of business and my settled
distrust of Sir Percival. Instead of going out, as I proposed, I went
back immediately to Laura's room to tell her what I had heard.

She received my bad news so composedly as to surprise me. She
evidently knows more of her husband's character and her husband's
embarrassments than I have suspected up to this time.

"I feared as much," she said, "when I heard of that strange gentleman
who called, and declined to leave his name."

"Who do you think the gentleman was, then?" I asked.

"Some person who has heavy claims on Sir Percival," she answered, "and
who has been the cause of Mr. Merriman's visit here to-day."

"Do you know anything about those claims?"

"No, I know no particulars."

"You will sign nothing, Laura, without first looking at it?"

"Certainly not, Marian. Whatever I can harmlessly and honestly do to
help him I will do--for the sake of making your life and mine, love, as
easy and as happy as possible. But I will do nothing ignorantly, which
we might, one day, have reason to feel ashamed of. Let us say no more
about it now. You have got your hat on--suppose we go and dream away
the afternoon in the grounds?"

On leaving the house we directed our steps to the nearest shade.

As we passed an open space among the trees in front of the house, there
was Count Fosco, slowly walking backwards and forwards on the grass,
sunning himself in the full blaze of the hot June afternoon. He had a
broad straw hat on, with a violet-coloured ribbon round it. A blue
blouse, with profuse white fancy-work over the bosom, covered his
prodigious body, and was girt about the place where his waist might
once have been with a broad scarlet leather belt. Nankeen trousers,
displaying more white fancy-work over the ankles, and purple morocco
slippers, adorned his lower extremities. He was singing Figaro's
famous song in the Barber of Seville, with that crisply fluent
vocalisation which is never heard from any other than an Italian
throat, accompanying himself on the concertina, which he played with
ecstatic throwings-up of his arms, and graceful twist