“Yes.”
“What can you do?”
“I haven’t an idea; but I mean to try to do something.”
Langhetti certainly did not look like a man who was capable of doing very much, especially against one like Potts. Thin, pale, fragile, and emaciated, his slender form seemed ready to yield to the pressure of the first fatigue which he might encounter. Yet his resolution was strong, and he spoke confidently of being able in some mysterious way to effect the escape of Beatrice. He had no idea how he could do it. He had exerted his strongest influence, and had come away discomfited. Still he had confidence in himself and trust in God, and with these he determined to set out once more, and to succeed or perish in the attempt.
After he had left Despard sat moodily in his study for some hours. At last a visitor was announced. He was a man whom Despard had never seen before, and who gave his name as Wheeler.
The stranger on entering regarded Despard for some time with an earnest glance in silence. At last he spoke: “You are the son of Lionel Despard, are you not?”
“Yes,” said Despard, in some surprise.
“Excuse me for alluding to so sad an event; but you are, of course, aware of the common story of his death.”
“Yes,” replied Despard, in still greater surprise.
“That story is known to the world,” said the stranger. “His case was publicly tried at Manilla, and a Malay was executed for the crime.”