"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 att.i.tude 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 a.s.suredly 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 embarra.s.sing; 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 circ.u.mstances."

"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-a.s.sertive 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 coa.r.s.e, 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.