Here Edwards stopped.  He perceived plainly that Lind—­who sat with his brows drawn down, and a sombre look on his face—­was not listening to him at all.  Presently Lind rose, and said,

“My good Edwards, I have some business of serious importance to attend to at once.  Now you will give me the report of your journey some other time.  To-night—­at nine o’clock?”

“Yes, sir; if that will suit you.”

“Can you come to my house in Curzon Street at nine?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Very well.  I am your debtor.  But stay a moment.  Of course, I understand from you that nothing that has happened interferes with the decree against our excellent friend the Cardinal?”

“So it appears.”

“The Council are not to be bought over by idle promises?”

“Apparently not.”

“Very well.  Then you will come to-night at nine; in my little study there will be no interruption; you can give me all the details of your holiday.  Ha, my friend Edwards,” he added more pleasantly, as he opened the door for his visitor, “would it not be better for you to give up that Museum altogether, and come over to us?  Then you would have many a pleasant little trip.”

“I suspect the Museum is most likely to give me up,” said Edwards, with a laugh, as he descended the narrow twilight stairs.

Then Lind returned to his desk, and sat down.  A quarter of an hour afterward, when Reitzei came into the room, he found him still sitting there, without any papers whatsoever before him.  The angry glance that Lind directed to him as he entered told him that the master did not wish to be disturbed; so he picked up a book of reference by way of excuse, and retreated into the farther room, leaving Lind once more alone.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

AN ENCOUNTER.

This was an October morning, in the waning of the year; and yet so bright and clear and fresh was it, even in the middle of London, that one could have imagined the spring had returned.  The world was full of a soft diffused light, from the pale clouds sailing across the blue to the sheets of silver widening out on the broad bosom of the Thames; but here and there the sun caught some shining surface—­the lip of a marble fountain, the glass of a lamp on the Embankment, or the harness of some merchant-prince’s horses prancing into town—­and these were sharp jewel-like gleams amidst the vague general radiance.  The air was sweet and clear; the white steam blown from the engines on Hungerford Bridge showed that the wind was westerly.  Two lovers walked below, in the Embankment gardens, probably listening but little to the murmur of the great city around them.  Surely the spring had come again, and youth and love and hope!  The solitary occupant of this chamber that overlooked the gardens and the shining river did not stay to ask why his heart should be so full of gladness, why this beautiful morning should yield him so much delight.  He was thinking chiefly that on such a morning Natalie would be abroad soon; she loved the sunlight and the sweet air.