“Perhaps you do not remember, for example, Clause I., the very first clause in the Obligations binding on Officers of the Second Degree; you do not remember that, perhaps?” He was now talking in a quietly contemptuous way; the little spasm of anger that had disturbed him when Reitzei put his hands on his arm had immediately passed away.  “The punishment for any one revealing, for any reason or purpose whatever, what has been done, or is about to be done by orders of the Council, or by any one acting under these orders—­you remember the rest, my friend?—­the punishment is death!  My good Reitzei, do not deprive me of the pleasure of your companionship; and do not imagine that you can force people to be polite to you by threats; that is not the way at all.  Go home and sleep away your anger; and do not imagine that you have any advantage in your position, or that you are less responsible for what has been done than any one.”

“I am not so sure about that,” said Reitzei, sullenly.

“In the morning you will be sure,” said the other, compassionately, as if he were talking to a child.

He held out his hand.

“Come, friend Reitzei,” said he, with a sort of pitying kindness, “you will find in the morning it will be all right.  What happened to-night was well arranged, and well executed; everybody must be satisfied.  And if you were a little too exuberant in your protestations, a little too anxious to accept the work yourself, and rather too demonstrative with your tremblings and your professions of courage and your clutching at the bottle:  what then?  Every one is not a born actor.  Every one must make a mistake sometimes.  But you won’t take my hand?”

“Oh, Mr. Beratinsky,” said the other, with profound sarcasm, “how could you expect it?  Take the hand of one so wise as you, so great as you, such a logician as you are?  It would be too much honor; but if you will allow me I will bid you good-night.”

He turned abruptly and left.  Beratinsky stood for a moment or so looking after him; then he burst into a fit of laughter that sounded along the empty street.  Reitzei heard the laughing behind him.

CHAPTER XLIV.

TWICE-TOLD TALE.

When the door had closed on George Brand, Natalie stood for a second or two uncertain, to collect her bewildered thoughts.  She heard his footsteps growing fainter and fainter:  the world seemed to sway around her; life itself to be slipping away.  Then suddenly she turned, and seized her mother by both her hands.

“Child, child, what is the matter?” the mother cried, terrified by the piteous eyes and white lips.

“Ah, you could not have guessed,” the girl said, wildly, “you could not have guessed from his manner what he has told me, could you?  He is not one to say much; he is not one to complain.  But he is about to lose his life, mother—­to lose his life! and it is I who have led him to this; it is I who have killed him!”