“Yes, like silk.”
Madame Fosco had evidently been watching outside. The mischief she might do by herself was little to be feared. But the mischief she might do, as a willing instrument in her husband’s hands, was too formidable to be overlooked.
“What became of the rustling of the gown when you no longer heard it in the ante-room?” I inquired. “Did you hear it go past your wall, along the passage?”
“Yes. I kept still and listened, and just heard it.”
“Which way did it go?”
“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 post-bag 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!”