“It is I, surely, who must take, that blame on myself,” said Lord Evelyn, sadly.  “But for me, how could you have been led into joining the Society?”

“Neither she nor you have anything to reproach yourselves with.  What was my life worth to me when I joined?  Then for a time I saw a vision of what may yet be in the world—­of what will be, please God; and what does it matter if one here or one there falls out of the ranks?—­the great army is moving on:  and for a time there were others visions.  Poor Natalie!—­I am glad her mother has come to her at last.”

He rose.

“I wish I could offer you a bed here,” Lord Evelyn said.

“I have a great many things to arrange to-night,” he answered, simply.  “Perhaps I may not be able to get to bed at all.”

Lord Evelyn hesitated.

“When can I see you to-morrow?” he said at length.  “You know I am going to Lind the first thing in the morning.”

Brand stopped abruptly.

“I must absolutely forbid your doing anything of the kind,” said he, firmly.  “This is a matter of the greatest secrecy; there is to be no talking about it; I have given you some hint, and the same I shall give to Natalie, and there an end.”  He added, “Your interference would be quite useless, Evelyn.  The matter is not in Lind’s hands.”

He bade his friend good-night.

“Thank you for letting me bore you so long.  You see, I expected talking over the thing would drive off that first shock of nervousness.  Now I am going to play the part of Karl Sand with indifference.  When you hear of me, you will think I must have been brought up by the Tugendbund or the Carbonari, or some of those societies.”

This cheerfulness did not quite deceive Lord Evelyn.  He bade his friend good-night with some sadness; his mind was not at ease about the share he attributed to himself in this calamity.

When Brand reached his chambers in Buckingham Street there was a small parcel awaiting him.  He opened it, and found a box with, inside, a tiny nosegay of sweet-smelling flowers.  These were not half as splendid as those he had got the previous afternoon for the rooms in Hans Place, but there was something accompanying them that gave them sufficient value.  It was a strip of paper, and on it was written—­“From Natalie and from Natalushka, with more than thanks.”

“I will carry them with me,” he thought to himself, “until the day of my death.  Perhaps they may not have quite withered by then.”

CHAPTER XLII.

A COMMUNICATION.