CHAPTER LII. — FACE TO FACE.
On the same evening Potts left the bank at about five o’clock, and went up to the Hall with John. He was morose, gloomy, and abstracted. The great question now before him was how to deal with Smithers & Co. Should he write to them, or go and see them, or what? How could he satisfy their claims, which he knew would now be presented? Involved in thoughts like these, he entered the Hall, and, followed by John, went to the dining-room, where father and son sat down to refresh themselves over a bottle of brandy.
They had not been seated half an hour before the noise of carriage-wheels was heard; and on looking out they saw a dog-cart drawn by two magnificent horses, which drove swiftly up to the portico. A gentleman dismounted, and, throwing the reins to his servant, came up the steps.
The stranger was of medium size, with an aristocratic air, remarkably regular features, of pure Grecian outline, and deep, black, lustrous eyes. His brow was dark and stern, and clouded over by a gloomy frown.
“Who the devil is he?” cried Potts. “D—n that porter! I told him to let no one in to-day.”
“I believe the porter’s playing fast and loose with us. But, by Jove! do you see that fellow’s eyes? Do you know who else has such eyes?”
“No.”
“Old Smithers.”
“Smithers!”
“Yes.”
“Then this is young Smithers?”
“Yes; or else the devil,” said John, harshly. “I begin to have an idea,” he continued. “I’ve been thinking about this for some time.”
“What is it?”
“Old Smithers had these eyes. That last chap that drew the forty thousand out of you kept his eyes covered. Here comes this fellow with the same eyes. I begin to trace a connection between them.”
“Pooh! Old Smithers is old enough to be this man’s grandfather.”
“Did you ever happen to notice that old Smithers hadn’t a wrinkle in his face?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing—only his hair mightn’t have been natural; that’s all.”
Potts and John exchanged glances, and nothing was said for some time.
“Perhaps this Smithers & Son have been at the bottom of all this,” continued John. “They are the only ones who could have been strong enough.”
“But why should they?”
John shook his head.
“Despard or Langhetti may have got them to do it. Perhaps that d——d girl did it. Smithers & Co. will make money enough out of the speculation to pay them. As for me and you, I begin to have a general but very accurate idea of ruin. You are getting squeezed pretty close up to the wall, dad, and they won’t give you time to breathe.”
Before this conversation had ended the stranger had entered, and had gone up to the drawing-room. The servant came down to announce him.
“What name?” asked Potts.
“He didn’t give any.”
Potts looked perplexed.
“Come now,” said John. “This fellow has overreached himself at last. He’s come here; perhaps it won’t be so easy for him to get out. I’ll have all the servants ready. Do you keep up your spirits. Don’t get frightened, but be plucky. Bluff him, and when the time comes ring the bell, and I’ll march in with all the servants.” Potts looked for a moment at his son with a glance of deep admiration.
“Johnnie,—you’ve got more sense in your little finger than I have in my whole body. Yes: we’ve got this fellow, whoever he is; and if he turns out to be what I suspect, then we’ll spring the trap on him, and he’ll learn what it is to play with edge tools.”
With these words Potts departed, and, ascending the stairs, entered the drawing-room.
The stranger was standing looking out of one of the windows. His attitude brought back to Potts’s recollection the scene which had once occurred there, when old Smithers was holding Beatrice in his arms. The recollection of this threw a flood of light on Potts’s mind. He recalled it with a savage exaltation. Perhaps they were the same, as John said—perhaps; no, most assuredly they must be the same.
“I’ve got him now, any way,” murmured Potts to himself, “whoever he is.”
The stranger turned and looked at Potts for a few moments. He neither bowed nor uttered any salutation whatever. In his look there was a certain terrific menace, an indefinable glance of conscious power, combined with implacable hate. The frown which usually rested on his brow darkened and deepened till the gloomy shadows that covered them seemed like thunder-clouds.
Before that awful look Potts felt himself cowering involuntarily; and he began to feel less confidence in his own power, and less sure that the stranger had flung himself into a trap. However, the silence was embarrassing; so at last, with an effort, he said:
“Well; is there any thing you want of me? I’m in a hurry.”
“Yes,” said the stranger, “I reached the village to-day to call at the bank, but found it closed.”
“Oh! I suppose you’ve got a draft on me, too.”
“Yes,” said the stranger, mysteriously. “I suppose I may call it a draft.”
“There’s no use in troubling your head about it, then,” returned Potts; “I won’t pay.”
“You won’t?”
“Not a penny.”
A sharp, sudden smile of contempt flashed over the stranger’s face.
“Perhaps if you knew what the draft is, you would feel differently.”
“I don’t care what it is.”
“That depends upon the drawer.”
“I don’t care who the drawer is. I won’t pay it. I don’t care even if it’s Smithers & Co. I’ll settle all when I’m ready. I’m not going to be bullied any longer. I’ve borne enough. You needn’t look so very grand,” he continued, pettishly; “I see through you, and you can’t keep up this sort of thing much longer.”
“You appear to hint that you know who I am?”
“Something of that sort,” said Potts, rudely; “and let me tell you I don’t care who you are.”
“That depends,” rejoined the other, calmly, “very much upon circumstances.”
“So you see,” continued Potts, “you won’t get any thing out of me—not this time,” he added.
“My draft,” said the stranger, “is different from those which were presented at the bank counter.”
He spoke in a tone of deep solemnity, with a tone which seemed like the tread of some inevitable Fate advancing upon its victim. Potts felt an indefinable fear stealing over him in spite of himself. He said not a word.
“My draft,” continued the stranger, in a tone which was still more aggressive in its dominant and self-assertive power—“my draft was drawn twenty years ago.”
Potts looked wonderingly and half fearfully at him.
“My draft,” said the other, “was drawn by Colonel Lionel Despard.”
A chill went to the heart of Potts. With a violent effort he shook off his fear.
“Pooh!” said he, “you’re at that old story, are you? That nonsense won’t do here.”
“It was dated at sea,” continued the stranger, in tones which still deepened in awful emphasis—“at sea, when the writer was all alone.”
“It’s a lie!” cried Potts, while his face grew white.
“At sea,” continued the other, ringing the changes on this one word, “at sea—on board that ship to which you had brought him—the Vishnu!”
Potts was like a man fascinated by some horrid spectacle. He looked fixedly at his interlocutor. His jaw fell.
“There he died,” said the stranger. “Who caused his death? Will you answer?”
With a tremendous effort Potts again recovered command of himself.
“You—you’ve been reading up old papers,” replied he, in a stammering voice. “You’ve got a lot of stuff in your head which you think will frighten me. You’ve come to the wrong shop.”
But in spite of these words the pale face and nervous manner of Potts showed how deep was his agitation.
“I myself was on board the Vishnu,” said the other.
“You!”
“Yes, I.”
“You! Then you must have been precious small. The Vishnu went down twenty years ago.”
“I was on board of the Vishnu, and I saw Colonel Despard.”
The memory of some awful scene seemed to inspire the tones of the speaker—they thrilled through the coarse, brutal nature of the listener.
“I saw Colonel Despard,” continued the stranger.
“You lie!” cried Potts, roused by terror and horror to a fierce pitch of excitement.
“I saw Colonel Despard,” repeated the stranger, for the third time, “on board the Vishnu in the Indian Sea. I learned from him his story—”
He paused.
“Then,” cried Potts quickly, to whom there suddenly came an idea which brought courage with it; “then, if you saw him, what concern is it of mine? He was alive, then, and the Despard murder never took place.”
“It did take place,” said the other.
“You’re talking nonsense. How could it if you saw him? He must have been alive.”
“He was dead!” replied the stranger, whose eyes had never withdrawn themselves from those of Potts, and now seemed like two fiery orbs blazing wrathfully upon him. The tones penetrated to the very soul of the listener. He shuddered in spite of himself. Like most vulgar natures, his was accessible to superstitious horror. He heard and trembled.
“He was dead,” repeated the stranger, “and yet all that I told you is true. I learned from him his story.”
“Dead men tell no tales,” muttered Potts, in a scarce articulate voice.
“So you thought when you locked him in, and set fire to the ship, and scuttled her; but you see you were mistaken, for here at least was a dead man who did tell tales, and I was the listener.”
And the mystic solemnity of the man’s face seemed to mark him as one who might indeed have held commune with the dead.
“He told me,” continued the stranger, “where he found you, and how.”
Awful expectation was manifest on the face of Potts.
“He told me of the mark on your arm. Draw up your sleeve, Briggs, Potts, or whatever other name you choose, and show the indelible characters which represent the name of Bowhani.”
Potts started back. His lips grew ashen. His teeth chattered.
“He gave me this,” cried the stranger, in a louder voice; “and this is the draft which you will not reject.”
He strode forward three or four paces, and flung something toward Potts.
It was a cord, at the end of which was a metallic ball. The ball struck the table as it fell, and rolled to the floor, but the stranger held the other end in his hand.
“THUG!” cried he; “do you know what that is?”
Had the stranger been Olympian Jove, and had he flung forth from his right hand a thunder-bolt, it could not have produced a more appalling effect than that which was wrought upon Potts by the sight of this cord. He started back in horror, uttering a cry half-way between a scream and a groan. Big drops of perspiration started from his brow. He trembled and shuddered from head to foot. His jaw fell. He stood speechless.
“That is my draft,” said the stranger.
“What do you want?” gasped Potts.
“The title deeds of the Brandon estates!”
“The Brandon estates!” said Potts, in a faltering voice.
“Yes, the Brandon estates; nothing less.”
“And will you then keep silent?”
“I will give you the cord.”
“Will you keep silent?”
“I am your master,” said the other, haughtily, as his burning eyes fixed themselves with a consuming gaze upon the abject wretch before him; “I am your master. I make no promises. I spare you or destroy you as I choose.”
These words reduced Potts to despair. In the depths of that despair he found hope. He started up, defiant. With an oath he sprang to the bell-rope and pulled again and again, till the peals reverberated through the house.
The stranger stood with a scornful smile on his face. Potts turned to him savagely:
“I’ll teach you,” he cried, “that you’ve come to the wrong shop. I’m not a child. Who you are I don’t know and I don’t care. You are the cause of my ruin, and you’ll repent of it.”
{Illustration: “THUG! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT IS?"}
The stranger said nothing, but stood with the same fixed and scornful smile. A noise was heard outside, the tramp of a crowd of men. They ascended the stairs. At last John appeared at the door of the room, followed by thirty servants. Prominent among these was Asgeelo. Near him was Vijal. Potts gave a triumphant smile. The servants ranged themselves around the room.
“Now,” cried Potts, “you’re in for it. You’re in a trap, I think. You’ll find that I’m not a born idiot. Give up that cord!”
The stranger said nothing, but wound up the cord coolly, placed it in his pocket, and still regarded Potts with his scornful smile.
“Here!” cried Potts, addressing the servants. “Catch that man, and tie his hands and feet.”
The servants had taken their station around the room at John’s order. As Potts spoke they stood there looking at the stranger, but not one of them moved. Vijal only started forward. The stranger turned toward him and looked in his face.
Vijal glanced around in surprise, waiting for the other servants.
“You devils!” cried Potts, “do you hear what I say? Seize that man!”
None of the servants moved.
“It’s my belief,” said John, “that they’re all ratting.”
“Vijal!” cried Potts, savagely, “tackle him.”
Vijal rushed forward. At that instant Asgeelo bounded forward also with one tremendous leap, and seizing Vijal by the throat hurled him to the floor.
The stranger waved his hand.
“Let him go!” said he.
Asgeelo obeyed.
“What the devil’s the meaning of this?” cried John, looking around in dismay. Potts also looked around. There stood the servants—motionless, impassive.
“For the last time,” roared Potts, with a perfect volley of oaths, “seize that man, or you’ll be sorry for it.”
The servants stood motionless. The stranger remained in the same attitude with the same sneering smile.
“You see,” said he, at last, “that you don’t know me, after all. You are in my power, Briggs—you can’t get away, nor can your son.”
Potts rushed, with an oath, to the door. Half a dozen servants were standing there. As he came furiously toward them they held out their clenched fists. He rushed upon them. They beat him back. He fell, foaming at the lips.
John stood, cool and unmoved, looking around the room, and learning from the face of each servant that they were all beyond his authority. He folded his arms, and said nothing.
“You appear to have been mistaken in your man,” said the stranger, coolly. “These are not your servants; they’re mine. Shall I tell them to seize you?”
Potts glared at him with bloodshot eyes, but said nothing.
“Shall I tell them to pull up your sleeve and display the mark of Bowhani, Sir? Shall I tell who and what you are? Shall I begin from your birth and give them a full and complete history of your life?”
Potts looked around like a wild beast in the arena, seeking for some opening for escape, but finding nothing except hostile faces.
“Do what you like!” he cried, desperately, with an oath, and sank down into stolid despair.
“No; you don’t mean that,” said the other. “For I have some London policemen at the inn, and I might like best to hand you over to them on charges which you can easily imagine. You don’t wish me to do so, I think. You’d prefer being at large to being chained up in a cell, or sent to Botany Bay, I suppose? Still, if you prefer it, I will at once arrange an interview between yourself and these gentlemen.”
“What do you want?” anxiously asked Potts, who now thought that he might come to terms, and perhaps gain his escape from the clutches of his enemy.
“The title deeds of the Brandon estate,” said the stranger.
“Never!”
“Then off you go. They must be mine, at any rate. Nothing can prevent that. Either give them now and begone, or delay, and you go at once to jail.”
“I won’t give them,” said Potts, desperately.
“Cato!” said the stranger, “go and fetch the policemen.”
“Stop!” cried John.
At a sign Asgeelo, who had already taken two steps toward the door, paused.
“Here, dad,” said John, “you’ve got to do it. You might as well hand over the papers. You don’t want to get into quod, I think.”
Potts turned his pale face to his son.
“Do it!” exclaimed John.
“Well,” he said, with a sigh, “since I’ve got to, I’ve got to, I suppose. You know best, Johnnie. I always said you had a long head.”
“I must go and get them,” he continued.
“I’ll go with you; or no—Cato shall go with you, and I’ll wait here.”
The Hindu went with Potts, holding his collar in his powerful grasp, and taking care to let Potts see the hilt of a knife which he carried up his sleeve, in the other hand.
After about a quarter of an hour they returned, and Potts handed over to the stranger some papers. He looked at them carefully, and put them in his pocket. He then gave Potts the cord. Potts took it in an abstracted way, and said nothing.
“You must leave this Hall to-night,” said the stranger, sternly—“you and your son. I remain here.”
“Leave the Hall?” gasped Potts.
“Yes.”
For a moment he stood overwhelmed. He looked at John. John nodded his head slowly.
“You’ve got to do it, dad,” said he.
Potts turned savagely at the stranger. He shook his clenched fist at him.
“D—n you!” he cried. “Are you satisfied yet? I know you. I’ll pay you up. What complaint have you against me, I’d like to know? I never harmed you.”
“You don’t know me, or you wouldn’t say that.”
“I do. You’re Smithers & Co.”
“True; and I’m several other people. I’ve had the pleasure of an extended intercourse with you. For I’m not only Smithers & Co., but I’m also Beamish & Hendricks, American merchants. I’m also Bigelow, Higginson, & Co., solicitors to Smithers & Co. Besides, I’m your London broker, who attended to your speculations in stocks. Perhaps you think that you don’t know me after all.”
As he said this Potts and John exchanged glances of wonder.
“Tricked!” cried Potts—“deceived! humbugged! and ruined! Who are you? What have you against me? Who are you? Who?”
And he gazed with intense curiosity upon the calm face of the stranger, who, in his turn, looked upon him with the air of one who was surveying from a superior height some feeble creature far beneath him.
“Who am I?” he repeated. “Who? I am the one to whom all this belongs. I am one whom you have injured so deeply, that what I have done to you is nothing in comparison.”
“Who are you?” cried Potts, with feverish impatience. “It’s a lie. I never injured you. I never saw you before till you came yourself to trouble me. Those whom I have injured are all dead, except that parson, the son of—of the officer.”
“There are others.”
Potts said nothing, but looked with some fearful discovery dawning upon him.
“You know me now!” cried the stranger. “I see it in your face.”
“You’re not him!” exclaimed Potts, in a piercing voice.
“I am LOUIS BRANDON!”
“I knew it! I knew it!” cried John, in a voice which was almost a shriek.
“Cigole played false. I’ll make him pay for this,” gasped Potts.
“Cigole did not play false. He killed me as well as he could—But away, both of you. I can not breathe while you are here. I will allow you an hour to be gone.”
At the end of the hour Brandon of Brandon Hall was at last master in the home of his ancestors.
CHAPTER LIII. — THE COTTAGE.
When Despard had bound Clark he returned to look after Langhetti. He lay feebly and motionless upon the ground. Despard carefully examined his wounds. His injuries were very severe. His arms were lacerated, and his shoulder torn; blood also was issuing from a wound on the side of his neck. Despard bound these as best he could, and then sat wondering what could be done next.
He judged that he might be four or five miles from Denton, and saw that this was the place to which he must go. Besides, Beatrice was there, and she could nurse Langhetti. But how could he get there?—that was the question. It was impossible for Langhetti to go on horseback. He tried to form some plan by which this might be done. He began to make a sort of litter to be hung between two horses, and had already cut down with his knife two small trees or rather bushes for this purpose, when the noise of wheels on the road before him attracted his attention.
It was a farmer’s wagon, and it was coming from the direction of Denton. Despard stopped it, explained his situation, and offered to pay any thing if the farmer would turn back and convey his friend and his prisoner to Denton. It did not take long to strike a bargain; the farmer turned his horses, some soft shrubs and ferns were strewn on the bottom of the wagon, and on these Langhetti was deposited carefully. Clark, who by this time had come to himself, was put at one end, where he sat grimly and sulkily; the three horses were led behind, and Despard, riding on the wagon, supported the head of Langhetti on his knees.
Slowly and carefully they went to the village. Despard had no difficulty in finding the cottage. It was where the letter had described it. The village inn stood near on the opposite side of the road.
It was about nine o’clock in the evening when they reached the cottage. Lights were burning in the windows. Despard jumped out hastily and knocked. A servant came. Despard asked for the mistress, and Beatrice appeared. As she recognized him her face lighted up with joy. But Despard’s face was sad and gloomy. He pressed her hand in silence and said:
“My dear adopted sister, I bring you our beloved Langhetti.”
“Langhetti!” she exclaimed, fearfully.
“He has met with an accident. Is there a doctor in the place? Send your servant at once.”
Beatrice hurried in and returned with a servant.
“We will first lift him out,” said Despard. “Is there a bed ready?”
“Oh yes! Bring him in!” cried Beatrice, who was now in an agony of suspense.
She hurried after them to the wagon. They lifted Langhetti out and took him into a room which Beatrice showed them. They tenderly laid him on the bed. Meanwhile the servant had hurried off for a doctor, who soon appeared.
Beatrice sat by his bedside; she kissed the brow of the almost unconscious sufferer, and tried in every possible way to alleviate his pain. The doctor soon arrived, dressed his wounds, and left directions for his care, which consisted chiefly in constant watchfulness.
Leaving Langhetti under the charge of Beatrice, Despard went in search of a magistrate. He found one without any difficulty, and before an hour Clark was safe in jail. The information which Despard lodged against him was corroborated by the brands on his back, which showed him to be a man of desperate character, who had formerly been transported for crime.
Despard next wrote a letter to Mrs. Thornton. He told her about Langhetti, and urged her to come on immediately and bring Edith with her. Then he returned to the cottage and wished to sit up with Langhetti. Beatrice, however, would not let him. She said that no one should deprive her of the place by his bedside. Despard remained, however, and the two devoted equal attention to the sufferer. Langhetti spoke only once. He was so faint that his voice was scarce audible. Beatrice put her ear close to his mouth.
“What is it?” asked Despard.
“He wants Edith,” said Beatrice.
“I have written for her,” said Despard.
Beatrice whispered this to Langhetti. An ecstatic smile passed over his face.
“It is well,” he murmured.
CHAPTER LIV. — THE WORM TURNS.
Potts departed from the Hall in deep dejection. The tremendous power of his enemy had been shown all along; and now that this enemy turned out to be Louis Brandon, he felt as though some supernatural being had taken up arms against him. Against that being a struggle seemed as hopeless as it would be against Fate. It was with some such feeling as this that he left Brandon Hall forever.
All of his grand projects had broken down, suddenly and utterly. He had not a ray of hope left of ever regaining the position which he had but recently occupied. He was thrust back to the obscurity from which he had emerged.
One thing troubled him. Would the power of his remorseless enemy be now stayed—would his vengeance end here? He could scarce hope for this. He judged that enemy by himself, and he knew that he would not stop in the search after vengeance, that nothing short of the fullest and direst ruin—nothing, in fact, short of death itself would satisfy him.
John was with him, and Vijal, who alone out of all the servants had followed his fortunes. These three walked down and passed through the gates together, and emerged into the outer world in silence. But when they had left the gates the silence ended.
“Well, dad!” said John, “what are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you any money?”
“Four thousand pounds in the bank.”
“Not much, dad,” said John, slowly, “for a man who last month was worth millions. You’re coming out at the little end of the horn.”
Potts made no reply.
“At any rate there’s one comfort,” said John, “even about that.”
“What comfort?”
“Why, you went in at the little end.”
They walked on in silence.
“You must do something,” said John at last.
“What can I do?”
“You won’t let that fellow ride the high horse in this style, will you?”
“How can I help it?”
“You can’t help it; but you can strike a blow yourself.”
“How?”
“How? You’ve struck blows before to some purpose, I think.”
“But I never yet knew any one with such tremendous power as this man has. And where did he get all his money? You said before that he was the devil, and I believe it. Where’s Clark? Do you think he has succeeded?”
“No,” said John.
“No more do I. This man has every body in his pay. Look at the servants! See how easily he did what he wished!”
“You’ve got one servant left.”
“Ah, yes—that’s a fact.”
“That servant will do something for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brandon is a man, after all—and can die,” said John, with deep emphasis. “Vijal,” he continued, in a whisper, “hates me, but he would lay down his life for you.”
“I understand,” said Potts, after a pause.
A long silence followed.
“You go on to the inn,” said Potts, at last. “I’ll talk with Vijal.”
“Shall I risk the policemen?”
“Yes, you run no risk. I’ll sleep in the bank.”
“All right,” said John, and he walked away.
“Vijal,” said Potts, dropping back so as to wait for the Malay. “You are faithful to me.”
“Yes,” answered Vijal.
“All the others betrayed me, but you did not?”
“Never.”
“Do you know when you first saw me?”
“Yes.”
“I saved your life.”
“Yes.”
“Your father was seized at Manilla and killed for murder, but I protected you, and promised to take care of you. Haven’t I done so?”
“Yes,” said Vijal humbly, and in a reverent tone.
“Haven’t I been another father?”
“You have.”
“Didn’t I promise to tell you some day who the man was that killed your father?”
“Yes,” exclaimed Vijal, fiercely.
“Well, I’m going to tell you.”
“Who?” cried Vijal, in excitement so strong that he could scarce speak.
“Did you see that man who drove me out of the Hall?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that was the man. He killed your father. He has ruined me—your other father. What do you say to that?”
“He shall die,” returned Vijal, solemnly. “He shall die.”
“I am an old man,” resumed Potts. “If I were as strong as I used to be I would not talk about this to you. I would do it all myself.”
“I’ll do it!” cried Vijal. “I’ll do it!”
His eyes flashed, his nostrils dilated—all the savage within him was aroused. Potts saw this, and rejoiced.
“Do you know how to use this?” he asked, showing Vijal the cord which Brandon had given him.
Vijal’s eyes dilated, and a wilder fire shone in them. He seized the cord, turned it round his hand for a moment, and then hurled it at Potts. It passed round and round his waist.
“Ah!” said Potts, with deep gratification. “You have not forgotten, then. You can throw it skillfully.”
Vijal nodded, and said nothing.
“Keep the cord. Follow up that man. Avenge your father’s death and my ruin.”
“I will,” said Vijal, sternly.
“It may take long. Follow him up. Do not come back to me till you come to tell me that he is dead.”
Vijal nodded.
“Now I am going. I must fly and hide myself from this man. As long as he lives I am in danger. But you will always find John at the inn when you wish to see me.”
“I will lay down my life for you,” said Vijal.
“I don’t want your life,” returned Potts. “I want his.”
“You shall have it,” exclaimed Vijal.
Potts said no more. He handed Vijal his purse in silence. The latter took it without a word. Potts then went toward the bank, and Vijal stood alone in the road.
CHAPTER LV. — ON THE ROAD.
On the following morning Brandon started from the Hall at an early hour. He was on horseback. He rode down through the gates. Passing through the village he went by the inn and took the road to Denton.
He had not gone far before another horseman followed him. The latter rode at a rapid pace. Brandon did not pay any especial attention to him, and at length the latter overtook him. It was when they were nearly abreast that Brandon recognized the other. It was Vijal.
“Good-morning,” said Vijal.
“Good-morning,” replied Brandon.
“Are you going to Denton?”
“Yes.”
“So am I,” said Vijal.
Brandon was purposely courteous, although it was not exactly the thing for a gentleman to be thus addressed by a servant. He saw that this servant had overreached himself, and knew that he must have some motive for joining him and addressing him in so familiar a manner.
He suspected what might be Vijal’s aim, and therefore kept a close watch on him. He saw that Vijal, while holding the reins in his left hand, kept his right hand concealed in his breast. A suspicion darted across his mind. He stroked his mustache with his own right hand, which he kept constantly upraised, and talked cheerfully and patronizingly with his companion. After a while he fell back a little and drew forth a knife, which he concealed in his hand, and then he rode forward as before abreast of the other, assuming the appearance of perfect calm and indifference.
“Have you left Potts?” said Brandon, after a short time.
“No,” replied Vijal.
“Ah! Then you are on some business of his now?”
“Yes.”
Brandon was silent.
“Would you like to know what it is?” asked Vijal.
“Not particularly,” said Brandon, coldly.
“Shall I tell you?”
“If you choose.”
Vijal raised his hand suddenly and gave a quick, short jerk. A cord flew forth—there was a weight at the end. The cord was flung straight at Brandon’s neck.
But Brandon had been on his guard. At the movement of Vijal’s arm he had raised his own; the cord passed around him, but his arm was within its embrace. In his hand he held a knife concealed. In an instant he slashed his knife through the windings of the cord, severing them all; then dropping the knife he plunged his hand into the pocket of his coat, and before Vijal could recover from his surprise he drew forth a revolver and pointed it at him.
{Illustration: VIJAL LOOKED EARNESTLY AT IT. HE SAW THESE WORDS: “JOHN POTTS."}
Vijal saw at once that he was lost. He nevertheless plunged his spurs into his horse and made a desperate effort to escape. As his horse bounded off Brandon fired. The animal gave a wild neigh, which sounded almost like a shriek, and fell upon the road, throwing Vijal over his head.
In an instant Brandon was up with him. He leaped from his horse before Vijal had disencumbered himself from his, and seizing the Malay by the collar held the pistol at his head.
“If you move,” he cried, sternly, “I’ll blow your brains out!”
Vijal lay motionless.
“Scoundrel!” exclaimed Brandon, as he held him with the revolver pressed against his head, “who sent you to do this?”
Vijal in sullen silence answered nothing.
“Tell me or I’ll kill you. Was it Potts?”
Vijal made no reply.
“Speak out,” cried Brandon. “Fool that you are, I don’t want your life.”
“You are the murderer of my father,” said Vijal, fiercely, “and therefore I sought to kill you.”
Brandon gave a low laugh.
“The murderer of your father?” he repeated.
“Yes,” cried Vijal, wildly; “and I sought your death.”
Brandon laughed again.
“Do you know how old I am?”
Vijal looked up in amazement. He saw by that one look what he had not thought of before in his excitement, that Brandon was a younger man than himself by several years. He was silent.
“How many years is it since your father died?”
Vijal said nothing.
“Fool!” exclaimed Brandon. “It is twenty years. You are false to your father. You pretend to avenge his death, and you seek out a young man who had no connection with it. I was in England when he was killed. I was a child only seven years of age. Do you believe now that I am his murderer?”
Brandon, while speaking in this way, had relaxed his hold, though he still held his pistol pointed at the head of his prostrate enemy. Vijal gave a long, low sigh.
“You were too young,” said he, at last. “You are younger than I am. I was only twelve.”
“I could not have been his murderer, then?”
“No.”
“Yet I know who his murderer was, for I have found out.”
“Who?”
“The same man who killed my own father.”
Vijal looked at Brandon with awful eyes.
“Your father had a brother?” said Brandon.
“Yes.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Yes. Zangorri.”
“Right. Well, do you know what Zangorri did to avenge his brother’s death?”
“No; what?”
“For many years he vowed death to all Englishmen, since it was an Englishman who had caused the death of his brother. He had a ship; he got a crew and sailed through the Eastern seas, capturing English ships and killing the crews. This was his vengeance.” Vijal gave a groan.
“You see he has done more than you. He knew better than you who it was that had killed your father.”
“Who was it?” cried Vijal, fiercely.
“I saw him twice,” continued Brandon, without noticing the question, of the other. “I saw him twice, and twice he told me the name of the man whose death he sought. For year after year he had sought after that man, but had not found him. Hundreds of Englishmen had fallen. He told me the name of the man whom he sought, and charged me to carry out his work of vengeance. I promised to do so, for I had a work of vengeance of my own to perform, and on the same man, too.
“Who was he?” repeated Vijal, with increased excitement.
“When I saw him last he gave me something which he said he had worn around his neck for years. I took it, and promised to wear it till the vengeance which he sought should be accomplished. I did so for I too had a debt of vengeance stronger than his, and on the same man.”
“Who was he?” cried Vijal again, with restless impetuosity.
Brandon unbuttoned his vest and drew forth a Malay creese, which was hung around his neck and worn under his coat.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked, solemnly.
Vijal took it and looked at it earnestly. His eyes dilated, his nostrils quivered.
“My father’s!” he cried, in a tremulous voice.
“Can you read English letters?”
“Yes.”
“Can you read the name that is cut upon it?”
And Brandon pointed to a place where some letters were carved.
Vijal looked earnestly at it. He saw these words: