flattered again, just as if I had never found him
out at all! He can manage me, as he manages
his wife and Laura, as he managed the bloodhound
in the stable-yard, as he manages Sir
Percival himself, every hour in the day. " My
good Percival! how I like your rough English
humour!"— "My good Percival! how I enjoy
your solid English sense!" He puts the rudest
remarks Sir Percival can make on his effeminate
tastes and amusements, quietly away from him
in that manner— always calling the baronet by
his Christian name; smiling at him with the
calmest superiority; patting him on the shoulder;
and bearing with him benignantly, as a
good-humoured father bears with a wayward
son.

The interest which I really cannot help feeling
in this strangely original man, has led me to
question Sir Percival about his past life. Sir
Percival either knows little, or will tell me little,
about it. He and the Count first met, many
years ago, at Rome, under the dangerous circumstances
to which I have alluded elsewhere.
Since that time, they have been perpetually
together in London, in Paris, and in Vienna—
but never in Italy again; the Count having,
oddly enough, not crossed the frontiers of his
native country for years past. Perhaps, he has
been made the victim of some political persecution?
At all events, he seems to be patriotically
anxious not to lose sight of any of his own
countrymen who may happen to be in England.
On the evening of his arrival, he asked
how far we were from the nearest town, and
whether we knew of any Italian gentlemen who
might happen to be settled there. He is certainly
in correspondence with people on the
Continent, for his letters have all sorts of odd
stamps on them; and I saw one for him, this
morning, waiting in his place at the breakfast-table,
with a huge official-looking seal on it.
Perhaps he is in correspondence with his government?
And yet, that is hardly to be reconciled,
either, with my other idea that he may be a
political exile.

How much I seem to have written about
Count Fosco! And what does it all amount
to?— as poor, dear Mr. Gilmore would ask, in
his impenetrable business-like way. I can only
repeat that I do assuredly feel, even on this
short acquaintance, a strange, half-willing, half-unwilling
liking for the Count. He seems to have
established over me the same sort of ascendancy
which he has evidently gained over Sir Percival.
Free, and even rude, as he may occasionally
be in his manner towards his fat friend,
Sir Percival is nevertheless afraid, as I can
plainly see, of giving any serious offence to the
Count. I wonder whether I am afraid, too?
I certainly never saw a man, in all my experience,
whom I should be so sorry to have for an
enemy. Is this because I like him, or because
I am afraid of him? Chi sa?— as Count Fosco
might say in his own language. Who knows?

2nd.— Something to chronicle, to-day, besides
my own ideas and impressions. A visitor has
arrived— quite unknown to Laura and to me;
and, apparently, quite unexpected by Sir Percival.

We were all at lunch, in the room with the
new French windows that open into the verandah;
and the Count (who devours pastry as I
have never yet seen it devoured by any human
beings but girls at boarding-schools) had just
amused us by asking gravely for his fourth tart
— when the servant entered, to announce the
visitor.

"Mr. Merriman has just come, Sir Percival,
and wishes to see you immediately."

Sir Percival started, and looked at the man,
with an expression of angry alarm.

"Mr. Merriman?" he repeated, as if he
thought his own ears must have deceived him.

"Yes, Sir Percival: Mr. Merriman, from
London."

"Where is he?"

"In the library, Sir Percival."

He left the table the instant the last answer
was given; and hurried out of the room without
saying a word to any of us.

"Who is Mr. Merriman?" asked Laura, appealing
to me.

"I have not the least idea," was all I could
say in reply.

The Count had finished his fourth tart, and
had gone to a side-table to look after his vicious
cockatoo. He turned round to us, with the
bird perched on his shoulder.

"Mr. Merriman is Sir Percival's solicitor," he
said, quietly.

Sir Percival's solicitor. It was a perfectly
straightforward answer to Laura's question;
and yet, under the circumstances, it was not
satisfactory. If Mr. Merriman had been specially
sent for by his client, there would have been
nothing very wonderful in his leaving town to
obey the summons. But when a lawyer travels
from London to Hampshire, without being sent
for, and when his arrival at a gentleman's
house seriously startles the gentleman himself,
it may be safely taken for granted that the legal
visitor is the bearer of some very important and
very unexpected news— news which may be
either very good or very bad, but which cannot,
in either case, be of the common, every-day
kind.

Laura and I sat silent at the table, for a
quarter of an hour or more, wondering uneasily
what had happened, and waiting for the chance
of Sir Percival's speedy return. There were no
signs of his return; and we rose to leave the
room.

The Count, attentive as usual, advanced from
the corner in which he had been feeding his
cockatoo, with the bird still perched on his
shoulder, and opened the door for us. Laura
and Madame Fosco went out first. Just as I
was on the point of following them, he made a
sign with his hand, and spoke to me, before I
passed him, in the oddest manner.

"Yes," he said; quietly answering the unexpressed
idea at that moment in my mind, as if I
had plainly confided it to him in so many words—