Langhetti’s face bore an expression of agony which he could not conceal. Every word of Potts stung him to the soul. He stood for some time in silence. At last, without a word, he walked out of the room. His brain reeled. He staggered rather than walked. Potts looked after him with a smile of triumph. He left the Hall and returned to the village. CHAPTER XLIII. THE STRANGER. A few weeks after Langhetti’s visit Potts had a new visitor at the bank. The stranger entered the bank parlor noiselessly, and stood quietly waiting for Potts to be disengaged. That worthy was making some entries in a small memorandum-book. Turning his head, he saw the newcomer. Potts looked surprised, and the stranger said, in a peculiar voice, somewhat gruff and hesitating, “Mr. Potts?” “Yes,” said Potts, looking hard at his visitor. He was a man of singular aspect. His hair was long, parted in the middle, and straight. He wore dark colored spectacles. A thick, black beard ran under his chin. His linen was not over-clean, and he wore a long surtout coat. “I belong to the firm of Bigelow, Higginson, & Co., Solicitors, London.--I am the Co.” “Well!” “The business about which I have come is one of some importance. Are we secure from interruption?” “Yes,” said Potts, “as much as I care about being. I don’t know any thing in particular that I care about locking the doors for.” “Well, you know best,” said the stranger. “The business upon which I have come concerns you somewhat, but your son principally.” Potts started, and looked with eager inquiry at the stranger. “It is such a serious case,” said the latter, “that my seniors thought, before taking any steps in the matter, it would be best to consult you privately.” “Well,” returned Potts, with a frown, “what is this wonderful case?” “Forgery,” said the stranger. Potts started to his feet with a ghastly face, and stood speechless for some time. “Do you know who you’re talking to?” said he, at last. “John Potts, of Brandon Hall, I presume,” said the stranger, coolly. “My business concerns him somewhat, but his son still more.” “What the devil do you mean?” growled Potts, in a savage tone. “Forgery,” said the stranger. “It is an English word, I believe. Forgery, in which your son was chief agent. Have I made myself understood?” Potts looked at him again, and then slowly went to the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. “That’s right,” said the stranger, quietly. “You appear to take things easy,” rejoined Potts, angrily; “but let me tell you, if you come to bully me you’ve got into the wrong shop.” “You appear somewhat heated. You must be calm, or else we can not get to business; and in that case I shall have to leave.” “I don’t see how that would be any affliction,” said Potts, with a sneer. “That’s because you don’t understand my position, or the state of the present business. For if I leave it will be the signal for a number of interested parties to make a combined attack on you.”