I stopped him at that point.
`Let me beg that we may not discuss Lady Glyde's affairs,' I said. `I have never known anything about them in former times, and I know nothing of them now -- except that her fortune is lost. You are right in assuming that I have personal motives for stirring in this matter. I wish those motives to be always as disinterested as they are at the present moment --'
He tried to interpose and explain. I was a little heated, I suppose, by feeling that he had doubted me, and I went on bluntly, without waiting to hear him.
`There shall be no money motive,' I said, `no idea of personal advantage in the service I mean to render to Lady Glyde. She has been cast out as a stranger from the house in which she was born -- a lie which records her death has been written on her mother's tomb -- and there are two men, alive and unpunished, who are responsible for it. That house shall open again to receive her in the presence of every soul who followed the false funeral to the grave -- that lie shall be publicly erased from the tombstone by the authority of the head of the family, and those two men shall answer for their crime to ME, though the justice that sits in tribunals is powerless to pursue them. I have given my life to that purpose, and, alone as I stand, if God spares me, I will accomplish it.'
He drew back towards his table, and said nothing. His face showed plainly that he thought my delusion had got the better of my reason, and that he considered it totally useless to give me any more advice.
`We each keep our opinion, Mr Kyrle,' I said, `and we must wait till the events of the future decide between us. In the meantime, I am much obliged to you for the attention you have given to my statement. You have shown me that the legal remedy lies, in every sense of the word, beyond our means. We cannot produce the law proof, and we are not rich enough to pay the law expenses. It is something gained to know that.'
I bowed and walked to the door. He called me back and gave me the letter which I had seen him place on the table by itself at the beginning of our interview.
`This came by post a few days ago,' he said. `Perhaps you will not mind delivering it? Pray tell Miss Halcombe, at the same time, that I sincerely regret being, thus far, unable to help her, except by advice, which will not be more welcome, I am afraid, to her than to you.'
I looked at the letter while he was speaking. It was addressed to `Miss Halcombe. Care of Messrs Gilmore & Kyrle, Chancery Lane.' The handwriting was quite unknown to me.
On leaving the room I asked one last question.
`Do you happen to know,' I said, `if Sir Percival Glyde is still in Paris?'
`He has returned to London,' replied Mr Kyrle. `At least I heard so from his solicitor, whom I met yesterday.'
After that answer I went out.
On leaving the office the first precaution to be observed was to abstain from attracting attention by stopping to look about me. I walked towards one of the quietest of the large squares on the north of Holborn, then suddenly stopped and turned round at a place where a long stretch of pavement was left behind me.
There were two men at the corner of the square who had stopped also, and who were standing talking together. After a moment's reflection I turned back so as to pass them. One moved as I came near, and turned the corner leading from the square into the street. The other remained stationary. I looked at him as I passed and instantly recognised one of the men who had watched me before I left England.
If I had been free to follow my own instincts, I should probably have begun by speaking to the man, and have ended by knocking him down. But I was bound to consider consequences. If I once placed myself publicly in the wrong, I put the weapons at once into Sir Percival's hands. There was no choice but to oppose cunning by cunning. I turned into the street down which the second man had disappeared, and passed him, waiting in a doorway. He was a stranger to me, and I was glad to make sure of his personal appearance in case of future annoyance. Having done this, I again walked northward till I reached the New Road. There I turned aside to the west (having the men behind me all the time), and waited at a point where I knew myself to be at some distance from a cab-stand, until a fast two-wheel cab, empty, should happen to pass me. One passed in a few minutes. I jumped in and told the man to drive rapidly towards Hyde Park. There was no second fast cab for the spies behind me. I saw them dart across to the other side of the road, to follow me by running, until a cab or a cab-stand came in their way. But I had the start of them, and when I stopped the driver and got out, they were nowhere in sight. I crossed Hyde Park and made sure, on the open ground, that I was free. When I at last turned my steps homewards, it was not till many hours later -- not till after dark.
I found Marian waiting for me alone in the little sitting-room. She had persuaded Laura to go to rest, after first promising to show me her drawing, the moment I came in. The poor little dim faint sketch -- so trifling in itself, so touching in its associations -- was propped up carefully on the table with two books, and was placed where the faint light of the one candle we allowed ourselves might fall on it to the best advantage. I sat down to look at the drawing, and to tell Marian, in whispers, what had happened. The partition which divided us from the next room was so thin that we could almost hear Laura's breathing, and we might have disturbed her if we had spoken aloud.
Marian preserved her composure while I described my interview with Mr Kyrle. But her face became troubled when I spoke next of the men who had followed me from the lawyer's office, and when I told her of the discovery of Sir Percival's return.
`Bad news, Walter,' she said, `the worst news you could bring. Have you nothing more to tell me?'
`I have something to give you,' I replied, handing her the note which Mr Kyrle had confided to my care.
She looked at the address and recognised the handwriting instantly.
`You know your correspondent?' I said.
`Too well,' she answered. `My correspondent is Count Fosco.'
With that reply she opened the note. Her face flushed deeply while she read it -- her eyes brightened with anger as she handed it to me to read in my turn.
The note contained these lines --
`Impelled by honourable admiration -- honourable to myself, honourable to you -- I write, magnificent Marian, in the interests of your tranquillity, to say two consoling words --
`Fear nothing!
`Exercise your fine natural sense and remain in retirement. Dear and admirable woman, invite no dangerous publicity. Resignation is sublime -- adopt it. The modest repose of home is eternally fresh -- enjoy it. The storms of life pass harmless over the valley of Seclusion -- dwell, dear lady, in the valley.
`Do this and I authorise you to fear nothing. No new calamity shall lacerate your sensibilities -- sensibilities precious to me as my own. You shall not be molested, the fair companion of your retreat shall not be pursued. She has found a new asylum in your heart. Priceless asylum! -- I envy her and leave her there.
`One last word of affectionate warning, of paternal caution, and
I tear myself from the charm of addressing you -- I close these fervent lines.
`Advance no farther than you have gone already, compromise no serious interests, threaten nobody. Do not, I implore you, force me into action -- ME, the Man of Action -- when it is the cherished object of my ambition to be passive, to restrict the vast reach of my energies and my combinations for your sake. If you have rash friends, moderate their deplorable ardour. If Mr Hartright returns to England, hold no communication with him. I walk on a path of my own, and Percival follows at my heels. On the day when Mr Hartright crosses that path, he is a lost man.'
The only signature to these lines was the initial letter F, surrounded by a circle of intricate flourishes. I threw the letter on the table with all the contempt I felt for it.
`He is trying to frighten you -- a sure sign that he is frightened himself,' I said.
She was too genuine a woman to treat the letter as I treated it. The insolent familiarity of the language was too much for her self-control. As she looked at me across the table, her hands clenched themselves in her lap, and the old quick fiery temper flamed out again brightly in her cheeks and her eyes.
`Walter!' she said, `if ever those two men are at your mercy and if you are obliged to spare one of them, don't let it be the Count.'
`I will keep this letter, Marian, to help my memory when the time comes.'
She looked at me attentively as I put the letter away in my pocket-book.
`When the time comes?' she repeated. `Can you speak of the future as if you were certain of it? -- certain after what you have heard in Mr Kyrle's office, after what has happened to you today?'
`I don't count the time from today, Marian. All I have done today is to ask another man to act for me. I count from tomorrow --'
`Why from tomorrow?'
`Because tomorrow I mean to act for myself.'
`How?'
`I shall go to Blackwater by the first train, and return, I hope, at night.'
`To Blackwater!'
`Yes. I have had time to think since I left Mr Kyrle. His opinion on one Point confirms my own. We must persist to the last in hunting down the date of Laura's journey. The one weak point in the conspiracy, and probably the one chance of proving that she is a living woman, centre in the discovery of that date.'
`You mean,' said Marian, `the discovery that Laura did not leave Blackwater Park till after the date of her death on the doctor's certificate?'
`Certainly.'
`What makes you think it might have been after? Laura can tell us nothing of the time she was in London.'
`But the owner of the Asylum told you that she was received there on the twenty-seventh of July. I doubt Count Fosco's ability to keep her in London, and to keep her insensible to all that was passing around her, more than one night. In that case, she must have started on the twenty-sixth, and must have come to London one day after the date of her own death on the doctor's certificate. If we can prove that date, we prove our case against Sir Percival and the Count.'
`Yes, yes -- I see! But how is the proof to be obtained?'
`Mrs Michelson's narrative has suggested to me two ways of trying to obtain it. One of them is to question the doctor, Mr Dawson, who must know when he resumed his attendance at Blackwater Park after Laura left the house. The other is to make inquiries at the inn to which Sir Percival drove away by himself at night. We know that his departure followed Laura's after the lapse of a few hours, and we may get at the date in that way. The attempt is at least worth making, and tomorrow I am determined it shall be made.'
`And suppose it fails -- I look at the worst now, Walter; but I will look at the best if disappointments come to try us -- suppose no one can help you at Blackwater?'
`There are two men who can help me, and shall help me, in London -- Sir Percival and the Count. Innocent people may well forget the date -- but they are guilty, and they know it. If I fail everywhere else, I mean to force a confession out of one or both of them on my own terms.'
All the woman flushed up in Marian's face as I spoke.
`Begin with the Count,' she whispered eagerly. `For my sake begin with the Count.'
`We must begin, for Laura's sake, where there is the best chance of success,' I replied.
The colour faded from her face again, and she shook her head sadly.
`Yes,' she said, `you are right -- it was mean and miserable of me to say that. I try to be patient, Walter, and succeed better now than I did in happier times. But I have a little of my old temper still left, and it will get the better of me when I think of the Count!'
`His turn will come,' I said. `But remember, there is no weak place in his life that we know of yet.' I waited a little to let her recover her self-possession, and then spoke the decisive words --
`Marian! There is a weak place we both know of in Sir Percival's life .'
`You mean the Secret!'
`Yes: the Secret. It is our only sure hold on him. I can force him from his position of security, I can drag him and his villainy into the face of day, by no other means. Whatever the Count may have done, Sir Percival has consented to the conspiracy against Laura from another motive besides the motive of gain. You heard him tell the Count that he believed his wife knew enough to ruin him? You heard him say that he was a lost man if the secret of Anne Catherick was known?'
`Yes! yes! I did.'
`Well, Marian, when our other resources have failed us, I mean to know the Secret. My old superstition clings to me, even yet. I say again the woman in white is a living influence in our three lives. The End is appointed -- the End is drawing us on -- and Anne Catherick, dead in her grave, points the way to it still!'
Chapter 30
V
The story of my first inquiries in Hampshire is soon told.
My early departure from London enabled me to reach Mr Dawson's house in the forenoon. Our interview, so far as the object of my visit was concerned, led to no satisfactory result.
Mr Dawson's books certainly showed when he had resumed his attendance on Miss Halcombe at Blackwater Park, but it was not possible to calculate back from this date with any exactness, without such help from Mrs Michelson as I knew she was unable to afford. She could not say from memory (who, in similar cases, ever can?) how many days had elapsed between the renewal of the doctor's attendance on his patient and the previous departure of Lady Glyde. She was almost certain of having mentioned the circumstance of the departure to Miss Halcombe, on the day after it happened -- but then she was no more able to fix the date of the day on which this disclosure took place, than to fix the date of the day before, when Lady Glyde had left for London. Neither could she calculate, with any nearer approach to exactness, the time that had passed from the departure of her mistress, to the Period when the undated letter from Madame Fosco arrived. ly, as if to complete the series of difficulties, the doctor himself, having been ill at the time, had omitted to make his usual entry of the day of the week and month when the gardener from Blackwater Park had called on him to deliver Mrs Michelson's message.
