“It is odd.”
“This man Potts excited sufficient interest in my mind to lead me to make many inquiries. I found, throughout the county, that every body utterly despised him. They all thought that poor Ralph Brandon had been almost mad, and, by his madness had ruined his family. Every body believed that Potts had somehow deceived him, but no one could tell how. They could not bring any direct proof against him.
“But I found out in Brandon the sad particulars of the final fate of the poor wife and her unfortunate children. They had been sent away or assisted away by this Potts to America, and had all died either on the way out or shortly after they had arrived, according to the villagers. I did not tell them what I knew, but left them to believe what they chose. It seemed to me that they must have received this information from Potts himself; who alone in that poor community would have been able to trace the fortunes of the unhappy emigrants.”
There was a long silence.
“I have done all that I could,” said Despard, in a disconsolate tone, “and I suppose nothing now remains to be done. When we hear again from Paolo there may be some new information upon which we can act.”
“And you can go back to your Byzantine poets.”
“Yes, if you will assist me.”
“You know I shall only be too happy.”
“And I shall be eternally grateful. You see, as I told you before, there is a field of labor here for the lover of music which is like a new world. I will give you the grandest musical compositions that you have ever seen. I will let you have the old hymns of the saints who lived when Constantinople was the only civilized spot in Europe, and the Christians there were hurling back the Mohammedans. You shall sing the noblest songs that you have ever seen.”
“How—in Greek? You must teach me the alphabet then.”