Cord and Creese | Page 9

an agony of
fear lest my miserable boy might be implicated in some way. To my
immense relief his name did not occur at all."
"You got a letter from your wife?" said Brandon, interrogatively.
"Yes," said the old man, with a sigh. "The last that I ever received from
her. Here it is." And, saying this, he opened his pocket-book and took
out a letter, worn and faded, and blackened by frequent readings.
Brandon took it respectfully, and read the following:
"CALCUTTA, August 15, 1828.
"MY DEAREST HENRY,--By the papers that I send you, you will see
what has occurred. Our dear Edgar is well, indeed better than usual, and
I would feel much cheered if it were not for the sad fate of the poor
Colonel. This is the last letter that you will ever receive from me. I am
going to leave this country never to return, and do not yet know where I
will go. Wherever I go I will be with my darling Edgar. Do not worry
about me or about him. It will be better for you to try and forget all
about us, since we are from this time the same as dead to you. Good-by
forever, my dearest husband; it shall be my daily prayer that God may
bless you.
"Your affectionate wife, MARY."
Brandon read this in silence, and handed it back.

"A strange letter," said Compton mournfully. "At first it gave a bitter
pang to think of my Mary thus giving me up forever, so coldly, and for
no reason: but afterward I began to understand why she wrote this.
"My belief is, that these villains kept my son in their clutches for some
good reason, and that they had some equally good reason for keeping
her. There's some mystery about it which I can't fathom. Perhaps she
knew too much about the Colonel's affairs to be allowed to go free.
They might have detained her by working upon her love for her son, or
simply by terrifying her. She was always a timid soul, poor Mary. That
letter is not her composition: there is not a word there that sounds like
her, and they no doubt told her what to write, or wrote out something,
and made her copy it.
"And now," said Compton, after another long pause, "I have got to the
end of my story. I know nothing more about them. I have lived here
ever since, at first despairing, but of late more resigned to my lot. Yet
still if I have one desire in life it is to get some trace of these dear ones
whom I still love as tenderly as ever. You, my dear boy, with your
ability may conjecture some way. Besides, you will perhaps be
traveling more or less, and may be able to hear of their fate. This is the
condition that I make. I implore you by your pity for a heart-broken
father to do as I say and help me. Half! why, I would give all that I
have if I could get them back again."
Brandon shuddered perceptibly at the words "heart-broken father;" but
he quickly recovered himself. He took Compton's hand and pressed it
warmly.
"Dear friend, I will make no objection to any thing, and I promise you
that all my best efforts shall he directed toward finding them out."
"Tell them to come to me, that I am rich, and can make them happy."
"I'll make them go to you if they are alive," said Brandon.
"God bless you!" ejaculated the old man, fervently.

Brandon spent the greater part of that day in making business
arrangements, and in reading the papers which Compton had preserved
containing an account of the Despard murder.
It was late at night before he returned to his hotel. As he went into the
hall he saw a stranger sitting there in a lounging attitude reading the
Sydney News.
He was a thin, small-sized man, with a foreign air, and quick, restless
manner. His features were small, a heavy beard and mustache covered
his face, his brow was low, and his eyes black and twinkling. A sharp,
furtive glance which he gave at Brandon attracted the attention of the
latter, for there was something in the glance that meant more than idle
curiosity.
Even in the midst of his cares Brandon's curiosity was excited. He
walked with assumed indifference up to the desk as though looking for
the key of his room. Glancing at the hotel book his eye ranged down
the column of names till it rested on the last one.
"Pietro Cigole."
--Cigole! the name brought singular associations. Had this man still any
connection with Potts? The words of his father's letter rushed into his
mind--"His arm may reach even