“I haven’t an idea; but I mean to try to do something.” Langhetti certainly did not look like a man who was capable of doing very much, especially against one like Potts. Thin, pale, fragile, and emaciated, his slender form seemed ready to yield to the pressure of the first fatigue which he might encounter. Yet his resolution was strong, and he spoke confidently of being able in some mysterious way to effect the escape of Beatrice. He had no idea how he could do it. He had exerted his strongest influence, and had come away discomfited. Still he had confidence in himself and trust in God, and with these he determined to set out once more, and to succeed or perish in the attempt. After he had left Despard sat moodily in his study for some hours. At last a visitor was announced. He was a man whom Despard had never seen before, and who gave his name as Wheeler. The stranger on entering regarded Despard for some time with an earnest glance in silence. At last he spoke: “You are the son of Lionel Despard, are you not?” “Yes,” said Despard, in some surprise. “Excuse me for alluding to so sad an event; but you are, of course, aware of the common story of his death.” “Yes,” replied Despard, in still greater surprise. “That story is known to the world,” said the stranger. “His case was publicly tried at Manilla, and a Malay was executed for the crime.” “I know that,” returned Despard, “and I know, also, that there were some, and that there still are some, who suspect that the Malay was innocent.” “Who suspected this?” “My uncle Henry Despard and myself.” “Will you allow me to ask you if your suspicions pointed at any one?” “My uncle hinted at one person, but he had nothing more than suspicions.” “Who was the man?” “A man who was my father’s valet, or agent, who accompanied him on that voyage, and took an active part in the conviction of the Malay.” “What was his name?” “John Potts.” “Where does he live now?” “In Brandon.” “Very well. Excuse my questions, but I was anxious to learn how much you knew. You will see shortly that they were not idle. Has any thing ever been done by any of the relatives to discover whether these suspicions were correct?” “At first nothing was done. They accepted as an established fact the decision of the Manilla court. They did not even suspect then that any thing else was possible. It was only subsequent circumstances that led my uncle to have some vague suspicions.” “What were those, may I ask?” “I would rather not tell,” said Despard, who shrank from relating to a stranger the mysterious story of Edith Brandon. “It is as well, perhaps. At any rate, you say there were no suspicions expressed till your uncle was led to form them?” “No.” “About how long ago was this?”