‘I wish I could be present to support you again, but that would hardly do. Be bold, and admit nothing. You have my best wishes; and come what may, I will stand by you.’ ‘I believe it, and am grateful,’ said Tor; and then they shook hands warmly, and after the nightly prowl round the house, Tor, with rather a sinking heart, mounted to Signor Pagliadini’s room. CHAPTER III. A STRANGE AWAKENING. It will be necessary now to make a break in the continuity of the story, and return to the spotless bedchamber in Dr. Schneeberger’s house, where the real Phil Debenham lay so long. For many weeks after Tor had left him, he remained in a state of helpless torpor—knowing nothing, hearing nothing, seeing nothing—merely taking what nourishment was given in a mechanical fashion, from which all power of volition seemed absent. But gradually a change came over the sick man. By slow degrees, and without any visible alteration in his condition, his brain began to recover its faculties, and long before he was inclined to evince any sign of life, he was able to hear, and in part to comprehend, what went on around him. At first his thoughts were very dim and indistinct, and he was chiefly disturbed by a haunting dread that Tor had left him. He missed him, in a blind, unreasoning way, and was vaguely distressed by the absence of his friend, before he had really realized that he was alone. As his brain-power gradually strengthened he took in other things. He found that, to this unknown household, wherever it might be, he was known as Herr Torwood, and over this strange metamorphosis he puzzled long and helplessly, and threw himself again into unconsciousness for some days. When he woke again, his mind was still clearer. He gave, however, no sign of comprehension, partly because the effort to awake his benumbed faculties seemed greater than he cared as yet to make, partly because a vague mistrust and uneasiness had fallen upon him, and he felt that he must gain a clearer insight into his surroundings, before he allowed it to be seen that he had come to himself. One day, whilst he was in this state, the little German, whom he supposed to be a doctor, because of his daily visits and careful examinations—one day this German doctor brought with him a medical friend, to whom he talked long and learnedly over the supposed condition of his patient’s brain. Doctors and Germans, however, are not above gossip, and after the medical side of the subject had been exhaustively discussed, they fell into another vein. ‘The Herr Debenham, his rich friend, will be very much disturbed at this long insensibility,’ remarked Dr. Schneeberger. ‘Where, then, is this Herr Debenham? Does he visit his friend often?’