He had not much difficulty in entertaining these two guests of his on their way down.  They professed to be greatly interested in the history and antiquities of the old-fashioned little thoroughfare over the river; arrived there, they regarded with much apparent curiosity the houses pointed out to them as having been the abode of illustrious personages:  they examined the old water gate; and, in ascending the oak staircase, they heard of painted ceilings and what not with a deep and respectful attention.  But always these two had each other’s hand clasped tight, and occasionally Natalie murmured a little snatch of Magyar.  It was only to make sure, she explained.

Before they reached the topmost story they heard a considerable noise overhead.  It was a one-sided altercation; broken and piteous on the one hand, voluble and angry on the other.

“It sounds as if Waters were having a row with the man in possession,” Brand said.

They drew nearer.

“Why, Natalie, it is your friend Kirski!”

Brand was following his two guests up-stairs; and so could not interfere between the two combatants before they arrived.  But the moment that Natalie appeared on the landing there was a dead silence.  Kirski shrunk back with a slight exclamation, and stood looking from one to the other with a frightened air.  She advanced to him and asked him what was the matter, in his native tongue.  He shrunk farther back.  The man could not or would not speak.  He murmured something to himself, and stared at her as if she were a spectre.

“He has got a letter for you, sir,” Waters said; “I have seen the address; and he will neither leave it nor take it.  And as for what he has been trying to say, Lord A’mighty knows what it is—­I don’t.”

“Very well—­all right,” Brand said.  “You leave him to us.  Cut away and get some luncheon—­whatever you can find—­at once.”

But Natalie had gone nearer to the Russian, and was talking to him in that fearless, gentle way of hers.  By-and-by he spoke, in an uncertain, almost gasping voice.  Then he showed her a letter; and, in obedience to something she said, went timidly forward and placed it in Brand’s hand.

  “A Monsieur,
     M. George Brand, Esq.,
        Londres.”

This was the superscription; and Brand recognized the handwriting easily enough.

“The letter is from Calabressa,” he said obviously.  “Tell him not to be alarmed.  We shall not eat him, however hungry we may be.”

Kirski had recovered himself somewhat, and was speaking eagerly to her, in a timid, anxious, imploring fashion.  She listened in silence; but she was clearly somewhat embarrassed, and when she turned to her lover there was some flush of color on her face.

“He talks some wild things,” she said, “and some foolish things; but he means no harm.  I am sorry for the poor man.  He is afraid you are angry with him; he says he promised never to try to see me; that he would not have come if he had known.  I have told him you are not angry; that it is not his fault; that you will show that you are not angry.”