“That is not the point,” replied Louis. “I believe Langhetti is one of the noblest men that ever lived. It must be so from what I have heard. All my life I will cherish his name and try to assist him in every possible way. I believe also that if we requested it he might perhaps keep our secret. But that is not the point, Frank. This is the way I look at it: We are dead. Our deaths have been recorded. Louis Brandon and Frank Brandon have perished. I am Wheeler, or Smithers, or Forsyth, or any body else; you are Henderson. We keep our secret because we have a purpose before us. Our father calls us from his tomb to its accomplishment. Our mother summons us. Our sweet sister Edith, from her grave of horror unutterable, calls us. All personal feeling must stand aside, Frank--yours and mine--whatever they be, till we have done our duty.” “You are right, Louis,” said Frank, sternly. “Langhetti is in London,” continued Louis. “You will not see him, but you can show your gratitude, and so can I. He is going to hire an opera-house to bring out an opera; I saw that in the papers. It is a thing full of risk, but he perhaps does not think of that. Let us enable him to gain the desire of his heart. Let us fill the house for him. You can send your agents to furnish tickets to people who may make the audience; or you can send around those who can praise him sufficiently. I don’t know what his opera may be worth. I know, however, from what I have learned, that he has musical genius; and I think if we give him a good start he will succeed. That is the way to show your gratitude, Frank.” “I’ll arrange all that!” said Frank. “The house shall be crowded. I’ll send an agent to him--I can easily find out where he is, I suppose--and make him an offer of Covent Garden theatre on his own terms. Yes, Langhetti shall have a fair chance. I’ll arrange a plan to enforce success.” “Do so, and you will keep him permanently in London till the time comes when we can arise from the dead.” They were silent for a long time. Louis had thoughts of his own, excited by the letter which he had received, and these thoughts he did not care to utter. One thing was a secret even from Frank. And what could he do? That Beatrice had fallen among friends he well knew. He had found this out when, after receiving a letter from Philips about her flight, he had hurried there and learned the result. Then he had himself gone to Holby, and found that she was at Mrs. Thornton’s. He had watched till she had recovered. He had seen her as she took a drive in Thornton’s carriage. He had left an agent there to write him about her when he left. What was he to do now? He read the letter over again. He paused at that sentence: “They have been talking it over, and have come to the conclusion to get a detective, and keep him busy watching her with the idea of getting her back.”