Beatrice did so, and saw two letters marked on it—B. D.
“This was given me by your nurse at Hong Kong. She said your things were all marked with those letters when you were first brought to her. She did not know what it meant. ‘B’ meant Beatrice; but what did ‘D’ mean?”
All around that bedside exchanged glances of wonder. Mrs. Compton was most agitated.
“Take me away,” she murmured to Philips.
But Philips would not.
“Cheer up, old woman!” said he. “There’s nothing to fear now. That devil won’t hurt you.”
“Now, in my deep interest in you, and in my affection, I tried to find out what this meant. The nurse and I often talked about it. She told me that your father never cared particularly about you, and that it was strange for your clothing to be marked ‘D’ if your name was Potts. It was a thing which greatly troubled her. I made many inquiries. I found out about the Manilla murder case. From that moment I suspected that ‘D’ meant Despard.
“Oh, Heavens!” sighed Beatrice, in an agony of suspense. Brandon and Despard stood motionless, waiting for something further.
“This is what I tried to solve. I made inquiries every where. At last I gave it up. So when circumstances threw Beatrice again in my way I tried again. I have always been baffled There is only, one who can tell—only one. She is here, in this room; and, in the name of God, I call upon her to speak out and tell the truth.”
“Who?” cried Despard, while he and Brandon both looked earnestly at Mrs. Compton.