On the morning after the last escape of Beatrice, Clark went up to Brandon Hall. It was about nine o’clock. A sullen frown was on his face, which was pervaded by an expression of savage malignity. A deeply preoccupied look, as though he were altogether absorbed in his own thoughts, prevented him from noticing the half-smiles which the servants cast at one another. Asgeelo opened the door. That valuable servant was at his post as usual. Clark brushed past him with a growl and entered the dining-room. Potts was standing in front of the fire with a flushed face and savage eyes. John was stroking his dog, and appeared quite indifferent. Clark, however, was too much taken up with his own thoughts to notice Potts. He came in and sat down in silence. “Well,” said Potts, “did you do that business?” “No,” growled Clark. “No!” cried Potts. “Do you mean to say you didn’t follow up the fellow?” “I mean to say it’s no go,” returned Clark. “I did what I could. But when you are after a man, and he turns out to be the DEVIL HIMSELF, what can you do?” At these words, which were spoken with unusual excitement, John gave a low laugh, but said nothing. “You’ve been getting rather soft lately, it seems to me,” said Potts. “At any rate, what did you do?” “Well,” said Clark, slowly--“I went to that inn--to watch the fellow. He was sitting by the fire, taking it very easy. I tried to make out whether I had ever seen him before, but could not. He sat by the fire, and wouldn’t say a word. I tried to trot him out, and at last I did so. He trotted out in good earnest, and if any man was ever kicked at and ridden rough-shod over, I’m that individual. He isn’t a man--he’s Beelzebub. He knows every thing. He began in a playful way by taking a piece of charcoal and writing on the wall some marks which belong to me, and which I’m a little delicate about letting people see; in fact, the Botany Bay marks.” “Did he know that?” cried Potts, aghast. “Not only knew it, but, as I was saying, marked it on the wall. That’s a sign of knowledge. And for fear they wouldn’t be understood, he kindly explained to about a dozen people present the particular meaning of each.” “The devil!” said John. “That’s what I said he was,” rejoined Clark, dryly. “But that’s nothing. I remember when I was a little boy,” he continued, pensively, “hearing the parson read about some handwriting on the wall, that frightened Beelzebub himself; but I tell you this handwriting on the wall used me up a good deal more than that other. Still what followed was worse.” Clark paused for a little while, and then, taking a long breath, went on. “He proceeded to give to the assembled company an account of my life, particularly that very interesting part of it which I passed on my last visit to Botany Bay. You know my escape.” He stopped for a while. “Did he know about that, too?” asked Potts, with some agitation.