Suppose Tor was his enemy? Suppose, having made one false step, he had then advanced until retreat should be impossible? Such things had happened before, and might happen again. When once a man had fallen, had begun a course of deceit and treachery, it was a hard matter to draw back. Phil was ready to believe that Tor might have acted, in the first place, simply from an impulse of ambition; but he could not get over his fear, that having once announced to the world that he was Philip Debenham, and assumed the position at Ladywell Manor to which the name entitled him, he would be prepared to stick to his colours at all cost, and would never admit himself a liar, an impostor, and a forger. No; come what might, Tor would make up his mind, and he would yield to nothing but actual force. He would never submit to humiliation and disgrace, and he had evidently taken every means in his power to ensure himself against danger. He would never willingly let Phil escape from his clutches, and therefore it would be necessary to use subtlety before he could hope to obtain his freedom. For many days Phil lay silent and motionless, making plans and weighing possibilities. As the helplessness of his condition grew more and more apparent, so did his bitterness increase against his former friend. ‘Friend’ indeed! Phil often smiled mournfully over the mockery of the word; and would lie for hours brooding over the strange, mysterious change which must have come over Tor, before he could stoop to such treachery and baseness. ‘Mine own familiar friend,’ he would sometimes murmur to himself over and over again; ‘mine own familiar friend,’ until the words seemed to haunt him night and day, as the most expressive in the whole language of thought. Yes, it was ever so; it was no new thing, this sudden betrayal of confidence, this treacherous attack from one who had answered to the sacred name of friend. It had been true thousands of years ago, and it was true that day. The history of the world could furnish countless instances of that same crime; and as the great Roman Emperor found, it was the hand of the familiar friend which was readiest to strike the deathblow. ‘Et tu, Brute?’ Those words of dignity and pathos have passed into a household word, but never before had Phil so realized their melancholy and touching significance. ‘Mine own familiar friend’—yes, indeed. It was to that very familiarity, that implicit confidence which existed between them that Tor owed the power to practise this great deception. This was an added pang, and cost Phil many hours of bitter thought. He had learned during these days of consciousness how this household, of which he seemed a member, divided its time. He knew when food would be brought up for him, and at what hour the doctor paid his daily visit. He knew when to expect the maid to sweep out the room and dust the furniture, and he equally knew when he should be left long hours in solitude.