"Eight months, last year."

"Is she well now?"

"Yes."

Smithers bowed his head in silence, and put his hand on his heart.

Philips watched him in an agony of fright, as though every instant he was apprehensive of some terrible calamity.

"How is she?" continued Smithers, after a time. "Has she ever been happy since she went there?"

Philips shook his head slowly and mournfully.

"Does her father ever show her any affection?"

"Never."

"Does her brother?"

"Never."

"Is there any one who does?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Mrs. Compton."

"Your mother?"

"Yes."

"I will not forget that. No, I will never forget that. Do you think that she is exposed to any danger?"

"Miss Potts?"

Smithers bowed.

"I don't know. I sometimes fear so."

"Of what kind?"

"I don't know. Almost any horrible thing may happen in that horrible place."

A pang of agony shot across the sombre brow of Smithers. He was silent for a long time.

"Have you ever slighted her?" he asked at last.

"Never," cried Philips. "I could worship her--"

Smithers smiled upon him with a smile so sweet that it chased all Philips's fears away. He took courage and began to show more calm. "Fear nothing," said Smithers, in a gentle voice. "I see that in spite of your follies and crimes there is something good in you yet. You love your mother, do you not?"

Tears came into Philips's eyes. He sighed. "Yes," he said, humbly.

"And you are kind to _her_--that other one?"

"I love her as my mother," said Philips, earnestly.

Smithers again relapsed into silence for a long time. At last he looked up. Philips saw his eyes this time, no longer stern and wrathful, but benignant and indulgent.

"You have been all your life under the power of merciless men," said he.

"You have been led by them into folly and crime and suffering. Often you have been forced to act against your will. Poor wretch! I can save you, and I intend to do so in spite of yourself. You fear these masters of yours. You must know now that I, not they, am to be feared. They know your secret but dare not use it against you. I know it, and can use it if I choose. You have been afraid of them all your life. Fear them no longer, but fear me. These men whom you fear are in my power as well as you are. I know all their secrets--there is not a crime of theirs of which you know that I do not know also, and I know far more.

"You must from this time forth be my agent. Smithers & Co. have agents in all parts of the world. You shall be their agent in Brandon Hall.

You shall say nothing of this interview to any one, not even to your mother--you shall not dare to communicate with me unless you are requested, except about such things as I shall specify. If you dare to shrink in any one point from your duty, at that instant I will come down upon you with a heavy hand. You, too, are watched. I have other agents here in Brandon besides yourself. Many of those who go to the bank as customers are my agents. You can not be false without my knowing it; and when you are false, that moment you shall be handed over to the authorities. Do you hear?"

The face of Smithers was mild, but his tone was stern. It was the warning of a just yet merciful master. All the timid nature of Philips bent in deep subjection before the powerful spirit of this man. He bowed his head in silence.

"Whenever an order comes to you from Smithers & Co. you must obey: if you do not obey instantly whatever it is, it will be at the risk of your life. Do you hear?"

Philips bowed.

"There is only one thing now in which I wish you to do anything. You must send every month a notice directed to Mr. Smithers, Senior, about the health of _his daughter_. Should any sudden danger impend you must at once communicate it. You understand?"

Philips bowed.

"Once more I must warn you always to remember that I am your master.

Fail in one single thing, and you perish. Obey me, and you shall be rewarded. Now go!"

Philips rose, and, more dead than alive, tottered from the room.

When he left Smithers locked the door. He then went to the window and stood looking at Brandon Hall, with his stern face softened into sadness. He hummed low words as he stood there--words which once had been sung far away.

Among them were these, with which the strain ended:

"And the sad memory of our life below Shall but unite us closer evermore; No net of thine shall loose Thee from the eternal bond, Nor shall Revenge have power To disunite us _there_!"

With a sigh he sat down and buried his face in his hands. His gray hair loosened and fell off as he sat there. At last he raised his head, and revealed the face of a young man whose dark hair showed the gray beard to be false.

Yet when he once more put on his wig none but a most intimate friend with the closest scrutiny could recognize there the features of Louis Brandon.

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

PAOLO LANGHETTI.