‘Tor—Torwood! wake up, old fellow! Don’t you know me—Phil Debenham? Tor, I say!’ Phil’s heart seemed turned to stone, and he lay still and motionless. Hope died within him as suddenly as it had leapt up. Tor had adopted his _rôle_ in earnest, and he would abide by his choice. By stratagem, not by force, was he now to be overcome. On the following day Tor departed, and upon the next, Phil did the same. Greatly to his relief, no mention had been made of the money so strangely left in the pocket-book. Either Tor had forgotten the matter, or else he had his own reasons for keeping silence. Phil cared little as to that, so long as he retained in his hands the necessary funds for his enterprise. He was carried from the doctor’s house like a log, and his host accompanied him in the carriage. By the time he reached the wayside inn, where a halt was called, the doctor assisted him to alight and dismissed the driver, who merely observed that the sick man had recovered somewhat during the drive. He was not the man usually employed by Dr. Schneeberger, and knew nothing about him or his charge. Once at the inn, Phil recovered rapidly, and by four o’clock the doctor and he bid each other a cordial adieu; and the former returned to his house, to give the innocent Gretchen a graphic account of the journey, and to tell her that his patient had been duly handed over to the mythical medical friend, who was to convey him down to the ship. As for Phil, he felt like a bird escaped from the snare of the fowler, rejoicing once again in the full use of his liberty. He remained that night where he was, for he had a vague fear that too rapid travelling might bring him into collision with Tor, and he was anxious above all things not to risk an encounter with him, until the right moment had arrived. His disguise occupied much of his thought and attention, and he determined to go to Paris to obtain it; having unbounded faith in French art. He made a wise choice; and Paris certainly turned him out a vastly altered man. First, his brown beard was cut in truly foreign fashion, and dyed an inky black. A costly wig of raven-black hair, of distinct Italian style, so altered the character of brow and face, that Phil hardly knew his own reflection in the glass. Art had no difficulty in darkening his eyebrows and giving them an arch not actually intended by nature; and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses with smoked lenses gave a totally altered expression to the one feature he feared would betray him. One or two carefully padded coats, of distinct Parisian cut, gave a breadth and solidity of figure quite unlike Phil’s own slight and wiry proportions, and transformed him into a foreigner quite as much as did the Italian hair.