Colonel Albert from this day became an object of increased and deeper interest to Myra. His appearance and manners had always been attractive, and the mystery connected with him was not calculated to diminish curiosity in his conduct or fate. But when she discovered that he was the unseen hero of her childhood, the being who had been kind to her Endymion in what she had ever considered the severest trial of her brother’s life, had been his protector from those who would have oppressed him, and had cherished him in the desolate hour of his delicate and tender boyhood, her heart was disturbed. How often had they talked together of the Count of Otranto, and how often had they wondered who he was! His memory had been a delightful mystery to them in their Berkshire solitude, and Myra recalled with a secret smile the numberless and ingenious inquiries by which she had endeavoured to elicit from her brother some clue as to his friend, or to discover some detail which might guide her to a conclusion. Endymion had known nothing, and was clear always that the Count of Otranto must have been, and was, an English boy. And now the Count of Otranto called himself Colonel Albert, and though he persisted in speaking English, had admitted to Mrs. Neuchatel that he was a foreigner. Who was he? She resolved, when she had an opportunity, to speak to the great banker on the subject. “Do you know, Mr. Neuchatel,” she said, “that Endymion, my brother, was at school with Colonel Albert?” “Ah, ah!” said Mr. Neuchatel. “But when he was at school he had another name,” said Myra. “Oh, oh!” said Mr. Neuchatel. “He was then called the Count of Otranto.” “That is a very pretty name,” said Mr. Neuchatel. “But why did he change it?” asked Myra. “The great world often change their names,” said Mr. Neuchatel. “It is only poor City men like myself who are always called Mr., and bear the same name as their fathers.” “But when a person is called a count when he is a boy, he is seldom called only a colonel when he is a man,” said Myra. “There is a great mystery in all this.” “I should not be surprised,” said Mr. Neuchatel, “if he were to change his name again before this time year.” “Why?” asked Myra. “Well, when I have read all his papers in Bishopsgate Street, perhaps I shall be able to tell you,” said Mr. Neuchatel, and Myra felt that she could pursue the theme no further.