“Are you going to Denton?” “Yes.” “So am I,” said Vijal. Brandon was purposely courteous, although it was not exactly the thing for a gentleman to be thus addressed by a servant. He saw that this servant had overreached himself, and knew that he must have some motive for joining him and addressing him in so familiar a manner. He suspected what might be Vijal’s aim, and therefore kept a close watch on him. He saw that Vijal, while holding the reins in his left hand, kept his right hand concealed in his breast. A suspicion darted across his mind. He stroked his mustache with his own right hand, which he kept constantly upraised, and talked cheerfully and patronizingly with his companion. After a while he fell back a little and drew forth a knife, which he concealed in his hand, and then he rode forward as before abreast of the other, assuming the appearance of perfect calm and indifference. “Have you left Potts?” said Brandon, after a short time. “No,” replied Vijal. “Ah! Then you are on some business of his now?” “Yes.” Brandon was silent. “Would you like to know what it is?” asked Vijal. “Not particularly,” said Brandon, coldly. “Shall I tell you?” “If you choose.” Vijal raised his hand suddenly and gave a quick, short jerk. A cord flew forth--there was a weight at the end. The cord was flung straight at Brandon’s neck. But Brandon had been on his guard. At the movement of Vijal’s arm he had raised his own; the cord passed around him, but his arm was within its embrace. In his hand he held a knife concealed. In an instant he slashed his knife through the windings of the cord, severing them all; then dropping the knife he plunged his hand into the pocket of his coat, and before Vijal could recover from his surprise he drew forth a revolver and pointed it at him. [Illustration: VIJAL LOOKED EARNESTLY AT IT. HE SAW THESE WORDS: “JOHN POTTS.”] Vijal saw at once that he was lost. He nevertheless plunged his spurs into his horse and made a desperate effort to escape. As his horse bounded off Brandon fired. The animal gave a wild neigh, which sounded almost like a shriek, and fell upon the road, throwing Vijal over his head. In an instant Brandon was up with him. He leaped from his horse before Vijal had disencumbered himself from his, and seizing the Malay by the collar held the pistol at his head. “If you move,” he cried, sternly, “I’ll blow your brains out!” Vijal lay motionless. “Scoundrel!” exclaimed Brandon, as he held him with the revolver pressed against his head, “who sent you to do this?” Vijal in sullen silence answered nothing. “Tell me or I’ll kill you. Was it Potts?” Vijal made no reply. “Speak out,” cried Brandon. “Fool that you are, I don’t want _your_ life.” “You are the murderer of my father,” said Vijal, fiercely, “and therefore I sought to kill you.” Brandon gave a low laugh. “The murderer of your father?” he repeated. “Yes,” cried Vijal, wildly; “and I sought your death.” Brandon laughed again.