Despard and Mrs. Thornton exchanged glances, and at last Despard told him that there was a person of the same name at Brandon Hall. She was living in a seclusion so strict that it seemed confinement, and there was a mystery about her situation which he had tried without success to fathom. Langhetti listened with a painful surprise that seemed like positive anguish. “Then I must go myself. Oh, my Bicina--to what misery have you come--But do you say that you have been there?” “Yes.” “Did you go to the Hall?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because I know the man to be a villain indescribable--” Langhetti thought for a moment, and then said, “True, he is all that, and perhaps more than you imagine.” “I have done the utmost that can be done!” said Despard. “Perhaps so; still each one wishes to try for himself, and though I can scarce hope to be more successful than you, yet I must try, if only for my own peace of mind. Oh, _Bicina cara!_ to think of her sweet and gentle nature being subject to such torments as those ruffians can inflict! “You do not know how it is,” said he at last, very solemnly; “but there are reasons of transcendent importance why Bice should be rescued. I can not tell them; but if I dared mention what I hope, if I only dared to speak my thoughts, you--you,” he cried, with piercing emphasis, and in a tone that thrilled through Despard, to whom he spoke, “you would make it the aim of all your life to save her.” “I do not understand,” said Despard, in astonishment. “No, no,” murmured Langhetti. “You do not; nor dare I explain what I mean. It has been in my thoughts for years. It was brought to my mind first in Hong Kong, when she was there. Only one person besides Potts can explain; only one.” “Who?” cried Despard, eagerly. “A woman named Compton.” “Compton!” “Yes. Perhaps she is dead. Alas, and alas, and alas, if she is! Yet could I but see that woman, I would tear the truth from her if I perished in the attempt!” And Langhetti stretched out his long, slender hand, as though he were plucking out the very heart of some imaginary enemy. “Think, Teresuola,” said he, after a while, “if you were in captivity, what would become of my opera? Could I have the heart to think about operas, even if I believed that they contributed to the welfare of the world, if your welfare was at stake? Now you know that next to you stands Bice. I must try and save her--I must give up all. My opera must stand aside till it be God’s will that I give it forth. No, the one object of my life now must be to find Bice, to see her or to see Mrs. Compton, if she is alive.” “Is the secret of so much importance?” asked Despard. Langhetti looked at him with mournful meaning. Despard looked at him wonderingly. What could he mean? How could any one affect him? His peace of mind! That had been lost long ago. And if this secret was so terrible it would distract his mind from its grief, its care, and its longing. Peace would be restored rather than destroyed.