“You knew it! When? Why did you not tell me?”
“I didn’t want to tell any thing that might distract you from your purpose.”
“I am not a child, Louis! After my victory over Rothschild I ought to be worthy of your confidence.”
“That’s not the point, Frank,” said Louis; “but I know your affection for the man, and I thought you would give up all to find him.”
“Well!”
“Well. I thought it would be better to let nothing interpose now between us and our purpose. No,” he continued, with a stern tone, “no, no one however dear, however loved, and therefore I said nothing about Langhetti. I thought that your generous heart would only be distressed. You would feel like giving up every thing to find him out and see him, and, therefore, I did not wish you even to know it. Yet I have kept an account of his movements, and know where he is now.”
“He is here in London,” said Frank, with deep emotion.
“Yes, thank God!” said Louis. “You will see him, and we all will be able to meet some day.”
“But,” asked Frank, “do you not think Langhetti is a man to be trusted?”
“That is not the point,” replied Louis. “I believe Langhetti is one of the noblest men that ever lived. It must be so from what I have heard. All my life I will cherish his name and try to assist him in every possible way. I believe also that if we requested it he might perhaps keep our secret. But that is not the point, Frank. This is the way I look at it: We are dead. Our deaths have been recorded. Louis Brandon and Frank Brandon have perished. I am Wheeler, or Smithers, or Forsyth, or any body else; you are Henderson. We keep our secret because we have a purpose before us. Our father calls us from his tomb to its accomplishment. Our mother summons us. Our sweet sister Edith, from her grave of horror unutterable, calls us. All personal feeling must stand aside, Frank—yours and mine—whatever they be, till we have done our duty.”