‘And then, mein Herr, whilst you were supposed to be sailing over the wide ocean, under the care of a medical friend of mine own, you could in reality be playing the part you have laid down for yourself; whilst I, for my part, could forward to the Herr letters, purporting to come from my friend, with accounts of Herr Torwood’s health. As they would be written to me, no envelopes need be sent; and I could fabricate the date, and the port from which it was written, as easily as the letter itself with its medical details.’ ‘Doctor,’ said Phil solemnly, ‘you are a brick!—if you know what that is. Write to Ladywell this afternoon; don’t lose a single day nor hour. Propound this idea of the sea-voyage, and urge it so that in common humanity he can hardly refuse.’ ‘I will,’ answered the doctor, who could be a warm partizan when he once espoused a cause. ‘And now, mein Herr, I think you had better return to your former state of torpor. It will not be well for Gretchen or the Mädchen to know that this change has taken place; only we ourselves must be in the secret. But I will write at once to Herr Debenham.’ Tor’s answer came as quickly as post could bring it, and contained the information that he was following his letter with all speed. For one moment Phil was filled with a great longing to meet his old friend face to face, and ask him, then and there, what was the meaning of this strange treachery; but soon the new fear and distrust rose up again within him—the knowledge of the power Tor always had exercised over him (to which in old days he had loved to submit, and which had always been generously exercised) came back to his memory, and made him fear to meet him; for there could be no doubt that the old generosity and friendliness must all have vanished, and given place to a malice and treachery which would make him a most dangerous enemy. And yet Phil’s heart misgave him sometimes, and smote him for the part he was about to play. True, he had been greatly wronged, ruthlessly betrayed and deceived; but did that justify him in deceiving, in his turn, the man to whom he owed so much? Phil felt restless and miserable as he turned over the question in his mind. ‘If he calls me “Phil” again, as he used to do, I don’t believe I can hold out. Oh, Tor, Tor! why are you treating me like this?’ Sounds in the hall below announced the arrival of the expected guest. Phil, with a hasty movement, drew the sheet over the lower part of his face, so as to hide the beard, upon which he was to rely in a great measure for his disguise. Then he lay motionless and rigid, with closed eyes and set face. He knew that Tor was standing over him, but he moved not an eyelash, although his heart beat so loud as to drown the sense of what was passing between the two men who stood beside the bed. ‘He is going to speak to me,’ said Phil to himself, when first he was able to grasp the meaning of words uttered in that familiar voice. ‘What will he say?’