Thereafter there was silence for a time, and when Brand next spoke it was in a certain, precise, hard fashion, as if he wished to make his meaning very clear.

“Suppose, Evelyn,” he said, “I were to tell you what has occurred to me as the probable explanation of Lind’s indifference about the future of his daughter, would you be surprised?”

“I expect it will be wrong, for you cannot do justice to that man; but I should like to hear it.”

“I must tell you he wrote me a letter, a shilly-shallying sort of letter, filled with arguments to prove that a marriage between Natalie and myself would not be expedient, and all the rest of it:  not absolutely refusing his consent, you understand, but postponing the matter, and hoping that on further reflection, et caetera, et caetera.  Well, do you know what my conclusion is?—­that he is definitely resolved I shall not marry his daughter; and that he is playing with me, humbugging me with the possibility of marrying her, until he induces me to hand him over my fortune for the use of the Society.  Stare away as you like; that is what I believe to be true.”

He rose and walked to the window, and looked out.

“Well, Evelyn, whatever happens, I have to thank you for many things.  It has been all like my boyhood come back again, but much more wonderful and beautiful.  If I have to go to America, I shall take with me at least the memory of one night at Covent Garden.  She was there—­and Madame Potecki—­and old Calabressa.  It was Fidelio they were playing.  She gave me some forget-me-nots.”

“What do you mean by going to America?” Lord Evelyn said.

Brand remained at the window for a minute or two, silent, and then he returned to his chair.

“You will say I am unjust again.  But unless I am incapable of understanding English—­such English as he speaks—­this is his ultimatum:  that unless I give my property, every cent of it, over to the Society, I am to go to America.  It is a distinct and positive threat.”

“How can you say so!” the other remonstrated.  “He has just been to America himself, without any compulsion whatever.”

“He has been to America for a certain number of weeks.  I am to go for life—­and, as he imagines, alone.”

His face had been growing darker and darker, the brows lowering ominously over the eyes.

“Now, Brand,” his friend said, “you are letting your distrust of this man Lind become a madness.  What if he were to say to-morrow that you might marry Natalie the day after?”

The other looked up almost bewildered.

“I would say he was serving some purpose of his own.  But he will not say that.  He means to keep his daughter to himself, and he means to have my money.”

“Why, you admitted, a minute ago, that even you could not suspect him of that!”

“Not for himself—­no.  Probably he does not care for money.  But he cares for ambition—­for power; and there is a vacancy in the Council.  Don’t you see?  This would be a tremendous large sum in the eyes of a lot of foreigners:  they would be grateful, would they not?  And Natalie once transferred to Italy, I could console myself with the honor and dignity of Lind’s chair in Lisle Street.  Don’t you perceive?”