“1825,” replied Mr. Compton. “Crocker,” he continued, “was acting as a sort of shipping agent, and my son was his clerk. Of course, my first efforts were directed toward detaching my son from these scoundrels. I did all that I could. I offered to give him half of my property, and finally all, if he would only leave them forever and come back. The wretched boy refused. He did not appear to be altogether bad, but he had a weak nature, and could not get rid of the influence of these men. “I staid in India for a year and a half, until I found at last that there was no hope. I could find nothing to do there, and if I remained I would have to starve or go out to service. This I could not think of doing. So I prepared to come back here. But my wife refused to leave her son. She was resolved, she said, to stay by him till the last. I tried to dissuade her, but could not move her. I told her that I could not be a domestic. She said that she could do even that for the sake of her boy. And she went off at once and got a situation as nurse with the same Colonel Despard with whom Briggs, or, as he called himself, Potts, was staying.” “What was the Christian name of this Potts?” asked Brandon, calmly. “John--John Potts.” Brandon said nothing further, and Compton resumed. “Thus my wife actually left me. I could not stay and be a slave. So I made her promise to write me, and told her that I would send her as much money as I could. She clung to me half broken-hearted as I left her. Our parting was a bitter one--bitter enough: but I would rather break my heart with grief than be a servant. Besides, she knew that whenever she came back my heart was open to receive her. “I came back to my lonely life out here and lived for nearly two years. At last, in September 1828, a mail arrived from India bringing a letter from my wife and Indian papers. The news which they brought well-nigh drove me mad.” Compton buried his face in his hands and remained silent for some time. “You couldn’t have been more than a child at that time, but perhaps you may have heard of the mysterious murder of Colonel Despard?” He looked inquiringly at Brandon, but the latter gave no sign. [Illustration: “THERE’S SOME MYSTERY ABOUT IT WHICH I CAN’T FATHOM.”] “Perhaps not,” he continued--“no: you were too young, of course. Well, it was in the _Vishnu_, a brig in which the Colonel had embarked for Manilla. The brig was laden with hogshead staves and box shooks, and the Colonel went there partly for his health, partly on business, taking with him his valet Potts.” “What became of his family?” interrupted Brandon. “He had a son in England at school. His wife had died not long before this at one of the hill stations, where she had gone for her health. Grief may have had something to do with the Colonel’s voyage, for he was very much attached to his wife.