“Then,” cried Potts quickly, to whom there suddenly came an idea which brought courage with it; “then, if you saw him, what concern is it of mine? He was alive, then, and the Despard murder never took place.” “It did take place,” said the other. “You’re talking nonsense. How could it if you saw him? He must have been alive.” _“He was dead!”_ replied the stranger, whose eyes had never withdrawn themselves from those of Potts, and now seemed like two fiery orbs blazing wrathfully upon him. The tones penetrated to the very soul of the listener. He shuddered in spite of himself. Like most vulgar natures, his was accessible to superstitious horror. He heard and trembled. “He was dead,” repeated the stranger, “and yet all that I told you is true. I learned from him his story.” “Dead men tell no tales,” muttered Potts, in a scarce articulate voice. “So you thought when you locked him in, and set fire to the ship, and scuttled her; but you see you were mistaken, for here at least was a dead man who did tell tales, and I was the listener.” And the mystic solemnity of the man’s face seemed to mark him as one who might indeed have held commune with the dead. “He told me,” continued the stranger, “where he found you, and how.” Awful expectation was manifest on the face of Potts. “He told me of the mark on your arm. Draw up your sleeve, Briggs, Potts, or whatever other name you choose, and show the indelible characters which represent the name of _Bowhani_.” Potts started back. His lips grew ashen. His teeth chattered. “He gave me this,” cried the stranger, in a louder voice; “and this is the draft which you will not reject.” He strode forward three or four paces, and flung something toward Potts. It was a cord, at the end of which was a metallic ball. The ball struck the table as it fell, and rolled to the floor, but the stranger held the other end in his hand. “THUG!” cried he; “do you know what that is?” Had the stranger been Olympian Jove, and had he flung forth from his right hand a thunder-bolt, it could not have produced a more appalling effect than that which was wrought upon Potts by the sight of this cord. He started back in horror, uttering a cry half-way between a scream and a groan. Big drops of perspiration started from his brow. He trembled and shuddered from head to foot. His jaw fell. He stood speechless. “That is my draft,” said the stranger. “What do you want?” gasped Potts. “The title deeds of the Brandon estates!” “The Brandon estates!” said Potts, in a faltering voice. “Yes, the Brandon estates; nothing less.” “And will you then keep silent?” “I will give you the cord.” “Will you keep silent?” “I am your master,” said the other, haughtily, as his burning eyes fixed themselves with a consuming gaze upon the abject wretch before him; “I am your master. I make no promises. I spare you or destroy you as I choose.”