“Not at all—­not at all!” Lind said, quickly.  “You may use any name you like.”

“I am glad of that,” he said.  Then, with the same proud, impassive firmness, he made an appointment for the next day, got his hat and coat, bade his companions good-night, and went down-stairs into the cold night air.  He could not realize as yet all that had happened, but his first quick, instinctive thought had been,

“Ah, not that—­not the name that my mother bore!”

CHAPTER XLI.

IN THE DEEPS.

The sudden shock of the cold night air was a relief to his burning brain; and so also as he passed into the crowded streets, was the low continuous thunder all around him.  The theatres were coming out; cabs, omnibuses, carriages added to the muffled roar; the pavements were thronged with people talking, laughing, jostling, calling out one to the other.  He was glad to lose himself in this seething multitude; he was glad to be hidden by the darkness; he would try to think.

But his thoughts were too rapid and terrible to be very clear.  He only vaguely knew—­it was a consciousness that seemed to possess both heart and brain like a consuming fire—­that the beautiful dreams he had been dreaming of a future beyond the wide Atlantic, with Natalie living and working by his side, her proud spirit cheering him on, and refusing to be daunted—­these dreams had been suddenly snatched away from him; and in their stead, right before him, stood this pitiless, inexorable fate.  He could not quite tell how it had all occurred, but there at least was the horrible certainty, staring him right in the face.  He could not avoid it; he could not shut his eyes to it, or draw back from it; there was no escape.  Then some wild desire to have the thing done at once possessed him.  At once—­at once—­and then the grave would cover over his remorse and despair.  Natalie would forget; she had her mother now to console her.  Evelyn would say, “Poor devil, he was not the first who got into mischief by meddling in schemes without knowing how far he might have to go.”  Then amidst all this confused din of the London streets, what was the phrase that kept ringing in his ears?—­“And when she bids die he shall surely die!” But he no longer heard the pathetic vibration of Natalie Lind’s voice; the words seemed to him solemn, and distant, and hopeless, like a knell.  But only if it were over—­that was again his wild desire.  In the grave was forgetfulness and peace.

Presently a curious fancy seized him.  At the corner of Windmill Street a ragged youth was bawling out the name of a French journal.  Brand bought a copy of the journal, passed on, and walked into an adjacent cafe, and took a seat at one of the small tables.  A waiter came to him, and he mechanically ordered coffee.  He began to search this newspaper for the array of paragraphs usually headed Tribunaux.