On the same evening Potts left the bank at about five o’clock, and went up to the Hall with John. He was morose, gloomy, and abstracted. The great question now before him was how to deal with Smithers & Co. Should he write to them, or go and see them, or what? How could he satisfy their claims, which he knew would now be presented? Involved in thoughts like these, he entered the Hall, and, followed by John, went to the dining-room, where father and son sat down to refresh themselves over a bottle of brandy.

They had not been seated half an hour before the noise of carriage-wheels was heard; and on looking out they saw a dog-cart drawn by two magnificent horses, which drove swiftly up to the portico. A gentleman dismounted, and, throwing the reins to his servant, came up the steps.

The stranger was of medium size, with an aristocratic air, remarkably regular features, of pure Grecian outline, and deep, black, lustrous eyes. His brow was dark and stern, and clouded over by a gloomy frown.

“Who the devil is he?” cried Potts. “D—n that porter! I told him to let no one in to-day.”

“I believe the porter’s playing fast and loose with us. But, by Jove! do you see that fellow’s eyes? Do you know who else has such eyes?”

“No.”

“Old Smithers.”

“Smithers!”

“Yes.”

“Then this is young Smithers?”

“Yes; or else the devil,” said John, harshly. “I begin to have an idea,” he continued. “I’ve been thinking about this for some time.”

“What is it?”

“Old Smithers had these eyes. That last chap that drew the forty thousand out of you kept his eyes covered. Here comes this fellow with the same eyes. I begin to trace a connection between them.”

“Pooh! Old Smithers is old enough to be this man’s grandfather.”

“Did you ever happen to notice that old Smithers hadn’t a wrinkle in his face?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing—only his hair mightn’t have been natural; that’s all.”

Potts and John exchanged glances, and nothing was said for some time.

“Perhaps this Smithers & Son have been at the bottom of all this,” continued John. “They are the only ones who could have been strong enough.”

“But why should they?”

John shook his head.

“Despard or Langhetti may have got them to do it. Perhaps that d——d girl did it. Smithers & Co. will make money enough out of the speculation to pay them. As for me and you, I begin to have a general but very accurate idea of ruin. You are getting squeezed pretty close up to the wall, dad, and they won’t give you time to breathe.”

Before this conversation had ended the stranger had entered, and had gone up to the drawing-room. The servant came down to announce him.

“What name?” asked Potts.

“He didn’t give any.”

Potts looked perplexed.

“Come now,” said John. “This fellow has overreached himself at last. He’s come here; perhaps it won’t be so easy for him to get out. I’ll have all the servants ready. Do you keep up your spirits. Don’t get frightened, but be plucky. Bluff him, and when the time comes ring the bell, and I’ll march in with all the servants.” Potts looked for a moment at his son with a glance of deep admiration.

“Johnnie,—you’ve got more sense in your little finger than I have in my whole body. Yes: we’ve got this fellow, whoever he is; and if he turns out to be what I suspect, then we’ll spring the trap on him, and he’ll learn what it is to play with edge tools.”

With these words Potts departed, and, ascending the stairs, entered the drawing-room.

The stranger was standing looking out of one of the windows. His attitude brought back to Potts’s recollection the scene which had once occurred there, when old Smithers was holding Beatrice in his arms. The recollection of this threw a flood of light on Potts’s mind. He recalled it with a savage exaltation. Perhaps they were the same, as John said—perhaps; no, most assuredly they must be the same.

“I’ve got him now, any way,” murmured Potts to himself, “whoever he is.”

The stranger turned and looked at Potts for a few moments. He neither bowed nor uttered any salutation whatever. In his look there was a certain terrific menace, an indefinable glance of conscious power, combined with implacable hate. The frown which usually rested on his brow darkened and deepened till the gloomy shadows that covered them seemed like thunder-clouds.

Before that awful look Potts felt himself cowering involuntarily; and he began to feel less confidence in his own power, and less sure that the stranger had flung himself into a trap. However, the silence was embarrassing; so at last, with an effort, he said:

“Well; is there any thing you want of me? I’m in a hurry.”

“Yes,” said the stranger, “I reached the village to-day to call at the bank, but found it closed.”

“Oh! I suppose you’ve got a draft on me, too.”

“Yes,” said the stranger, mysteriously. “I suppose I may call it a draft.”

“There’s no use in troubling your head about it, then,” returned Potts; “I won’t pay.”

“You won’t?”

“Not a penny.”

A sharp, sudden smile of contempt flashed over the stranger’s face.

“Perhaps if you knew what the draft is, you would feel differently.”

“I don’t care what it is.”

“That depends upon the drawer.”

“I don’t care who the drawer is. I won’t pay it. I don’t care even if it’s Smithers & Co. I’ll settle all when I’m ready. I’m not going to be bullied any longer. I’ve borne enough. You needn’t look so very grand,” he continued, pettishly; “I see through you, and you can’t keep up this sort of thing much longer.”

“You appear to hint that you know who I am?”

“Something of that sort,” said Potts, rudely; “and let me tell you I don’t care who you are.”

“That depends,” rejoined the other, calmly, “very much upon circumstances.”

“So you see,” continued Potts, “you won’t get any thing out of me—not this time,” he added.

“My draft,” said the stranger, “is different from those which were presented at the bank counter.”

He spoke in a tone of deep solemnity, with a tone which seemed like the tread of some inevitable Fate advancing upon its victim. Potts felt an indefinable fear stealing over him in spite of himself. He said not a word.

“My draft,” continued the stranger, in a tone which was still more aggressive in its dominant and self-assertive power—“my draft was drawn twenty years ago.”

Potts looked wonderingly and half fearfully at him.

“My draft,” said the other, “was drawn by Colonel Lionel Despard.”

A chill went to the heart of Potts. With a violent effort he shook off his fear.

“Pooh!” said he, “you’re at that old story, are you? That nonsense won’t do here.”

“It was dated at sea,” continued the stranger, in tones which still deepened in awful emphasis—“at sea, when the writer was all alone.”

“It’s a lie!” cried Potts, while his face grew white.

“At sea,” continued the other, ringing the changes on this one word, “at sea—on board that ship to which you had brought him—the Vishnu!”

Potts was like a man fascinated by some horrid spectacle. He looked fixedly at his interlocutor. His jaw fell.

“There he died,” said the stranger. “Who caused his death? Will you answer?”

With a tremendous effort Potts again recovered command of himself.

“You—you’ve been reading up old papers,” replied he, in a stammering voice. “You’ve got a lot of stuff in your head which you think will frighten me. You’ve come to the wrong shop.”

But in spite of these words the pale face and nervous manner of Potts showed how deep was his agitation.

“I myself was on board the Vishnu,” said the other.

“You!”

“Yes, I.”

“You! Then you must have been precious small. The Vishnu went down twenty years ago.”

“I was on board of the Vishnu, and I saw Colonel Despard.”

The memory of some awful scene seemed to inspire the tones of the speaker—they thrilled through the coarse, brutal nature of the listener.

“I saw Colonel Despard,” continued the stranger.

“You lie!” cried Potts, roused by terror and horror to a fierce pitch of excitement.

“I saw Colonel Despard,” repeated the stranger, for the third time, “on board the Vishnu in the Indian Sea. I learned from him his story—”

He paused.

“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.”

These words reduced Potts to despair. In the depths of that despair he found hope. He started up, defiant. With an oath he sprang to the bell-rope and pulled again and again, till the peals reverberated through the house.

The stranger stood with a scornful smile on his face. Potts turned to him savagely:

“I’ll teach you,” he cried, “that you’ve come to the wrong shop. I’m not a child. Who you are I don’t know and I don’t care. You are the cause of my ruin, and you’ll repent of it.”

{Illustration: “THUG! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT IS?"}

The stranger said nothing, but stood with the same fixed and scornful smile. A noise was heard outside, the tramp of a crowd of men. They ascended the stairs. At last John appeared at the door of the room, followed by thirty servants. Prominent among these was Asgeelo. Near him was Vijal. Potts gave a triumphant smile. The servants ranged themselves around the room.

“Now,” cried Potts, “you’re in for it. You’re in a trap, I think. You’ll find that I’m not a born idiot. Give up that cord!”

The stranger said nothing, but wound up the cord coolly, placed it in his pocket, and still regarded Potts with his scornful smile.

“Here!” cried Potts, addressing the servants. “Catch that man, and tie his hands and feet.”

The servants had taken their station around the room at John’s order. As Potts spoke they stood there looking at the stranger, but not one of them moved. Vijal only started forward. The stranger turned toward him and looked in his face.

Vijal glanced around in surprise, waiting for the other servants.

“You devils!” cried Potts, “do you hear what I say? Seize that man!”

None of the servants moved.

“It’s my belief,” said John, “that they’re all ratting.”

“Vijal!” cried Potts, savagely, “tackle him.”

Vijal rushed forward. At that instant Asgeelo bounded forward also with one tremendous leap, and seizing Vijal by the throat hurled him to the floor.

The stranger waved his hand.

“Let him go!” said he.

Asgeelo obeyed.

“What the devil’s the meaning of this?” cried John, looking around in dismay. Potts also looked around. There stood the servants—motionless, impassive.

“For the last time,” roared Potts, with a perfect volley of oaths, “seize that man, or you’ll be sorry for it.”

The servants stood motionless. The stranger remained in the same attitude with the same sneering smile.

“You see,” said he, at last, “that you don’t know me, after all. You are in my power, Briggs—you can’t get away, nor can your son.”

Potts rushed, with an oath, to the door. Half a dozen servants were standing there. As he came furiously toward them they held out their clenched fists. He rushed upon them. They beat him back. He fell, foaming at the lips.

John stood, cool and unmoved, looking around the room, and learning from the face of each servant that they were all beyond his authority. He folded his arms, and said nothing.

“You appear to have been mistaken in your man,” said the stranger, coolly. “These are not your servants; they’re mine. Shall I tell them to seize you?”

Potts glared at him with bloodshot eyes, but said nothing.

“Shall I tell them to pull up your sleeve and display the mark of Bowhani, Sir? Shall I tell who and what you are? Shall I begin from your birth and give them a full and complete history of your life?”

Potts looked around like a wild beast in the arena, seeking for some opening for escape, but finding nothing except hostile faces.

“Do what you like!” he cried, desperately, with an oath, and sank down into stolid despair.

“No; you don’t mean that,” said the other. “For I have some London policemen at the inn, and I might like best to hand you over to them on charges which you can easily imagine. You don’t wish me to do so, I think. You’d prefer being at large to being chained up in a cell, or sent to Botany Bay, I suppose? Still, if you prefer it, I will at once arrange an interview between yourself and these gentlemen.”

“What do you want?” anxiously asked Potts, who now thought that he might come to terms, and perhaps gain his escape from the clutches of his enemy.

“The title deeds of the Brandon estate,” said the stranger.

“Never!”

“Then off you go. They must be mine, at any rate. Nothing can prevent that. Either give them now and begone, or delay, and you go at once to jail.”

“I won’t give them,” said Potts, desperately.

“Cato!” said the stranger, “go and fetch the policemen.”

“Stop!” cried John.

At a sign Asgeelo, who had already taken two steps toward the door, paused.

“Here, dad,” said John, “you’ve got to do it. You might as well hand over the papers. You don’t want to get into quod, I think.”

Potts turned his pale face to his son.

“Do it!” exclaimed John.

“Well,” he said, with a sigh, “since I’ve got to, I’ve got to, I suppose. You know best, Johnnie. I always said you had a long head.”

“I must go and get them,” he continued.

“I’ll go with you; or no—Cato shall go with you, and I’ll wait here.”

The Hindu went with Potts, holding his collar in his powerful grasp, and taking care to let Potts see the hilt of a knife which he carried up his sleeve, in the other hand.

After about a quarter of an hour they returned, and Potts handed over to the stranger some papers. He looked at them carefully, and put them in his pocket. He then gave Potts the cord. Potts took it in an abstracted way, and said nothing.

“You must leave this Hall to-night,” said the stranger, sternly—“you and your son. I remain here.”

“Leave the Hall?” gasped Potts.

“Yes.”

For a moment he stood overwhelmed. He looked at John. John nodded his head slowly.

“You’ve got to do it, dad,” said he.

Potts turned savagely at the stranger. He shook his clenched fist at him.

“D—n you!” he cried. “Are you satisfied yet? I know you. I’ll pay you up. What complaint have you against me, I’d like to know? I never harmed you.”

“You don’t know me, or you wouldn’t say that.”

“I do. You’re Smithers & Co.”

“True; and I’m several other people. I’ve had the pleasure of an extended intercourse with you. For I’m not only Smithers & Co., but I’m also Beamish & Hendricks, American merchants. I’m also Bigelow, Higginson, & Co., solicitors to Smithers & Co. Besides, I’m your London broker, who attended to your speculations in stocks. Perhaps you think that you don’t know me after all.”

As he said this Potts and John exchanged glances of wonder.

“Tricked!” cried Potts—“deceived! humbugged! and ruined! Who are you? What have you against me? Who are you? Who?”

And he gazed with intense curiosity upon the calm face of the stranger, who, in his turn, looked upon him with the air of one who was surveying from a superior height some feeble creature far beneath him.

“Who am I?” he repeated. “Who? I am the one to whom all this belongs. I am one whom you have injured so deeply, that what I have done to you is nothing in comparison.”

“Who are you?” cried Potts, with feverish impatience. “It’s a lie. I never injured you. I never saw you before till you came yourself to trouble me. Those whom I have injured are all dead, except that parson, the son of—of the officer.”

“There are others.”

Potts said nothing, but looked with some fearful discovery dawning upon him.

“You know me now!” cried the stranger. “I see it in your face.”

“You’re not him!” exclaimed Potts, in a piercing voice.

“I am LOUIS BRANDON!”

“I knew it! I knew it!” cried John, in a voice which was almost a shriek.

“Cigole played false. I’ll make him pay for this,” gasped Potts.

“Cigole did not play false. He killed me as well as he could—But away, both of you. I can not breathe while you are here. I will allow you an hour to be gone.”

At the end of the hour Brandon of Brandon Hall was at last master in the home of his ancestors.