Mrs. Belassis seemed to pause and reflect. That was a new and unwelcome idea. She even wondered if the Italian could by any chance have tried to put her upon a wrong tack, for he was anything but open with her. Torrington Torwood—Philip Debenham; the names seemed to float as in a mist before her, and she could not disentangle the one from the other. She was convinced one moment that the present master of Ladywell _must_ be Philip Debenham—he could not otherwise assume such mastery; and surely no one else would dare to play the part he was playing: it would be too reckless, too dangerous. And yet a host of small doubts and suspicions crowded upon her, one after the other, all pointing to the strange conclusion that the man was an impostor, not Philip Debenham at all, but merely someone who understood his affairs as well as he did himself—in other words, Torrington Torwood. Mrs. Belassis’ head seemed fairly to swim. If only the Italian would speak out and ratify in actual words the hints he had thrown out. His manner was so odd that she found herself inclined to doubt even such statements as he had made. What if he were an enemy too, leading her on to worse troubles than already beset her path? Mrs. Belassis was thoroughly uncomfortable, devoured by curiosity and uncertainty, yet too distrustful of her companion to press him with further inquiries. She made one last attempt to draw him out. ‘Whether or not he is the right man, I am convinced that he will retain the place he has gained, be it by fair means or foul. He has strength, wealth, determination, and this three months has enabled him to settle himself firmly in possession. Philip Debenham had better look to himself when he returns from sea. This man has all the property, and will take care that he keeps it. He will dispute the possession by every weapon in his power, and he will win.’ The Signor looked uneasy. ‘You think that?’ ‘I am convinced of it. I have studied his character closely. He is proud, and he is unscrupulous. He will never submit to be humiliated. He will fight to the death. It is might, not right, that conquers in such a struggle, and he has the power.’ Signor Pagliadini looked irresolute, like a man who half wishes, half fears to speak. ‘Then you would not prosecute?’ ‘I should have to think seriously before I did so. My husband would be swayed in the matter by me. If we were absolutely convinced of our cause, we might be inclined to do so; much would depend upon the character and appearance of Philip Debenham when he appeared. We could not act unless the whole case were frankly confided to us.’ She paused, but the Italian did not seem inclined to speak, so she added impressively: ‘If you are concerned in this matter, Monsieur, and have the interests of your friend really at heart, you cannot do better than confide in me. I am anxious that justice should be done; but I cannot act in the dark. Have you nothing more to tell me?’