Natalie turned to George Brand.

“He said something more than that,” said she.  “He said he had undertaken some duty, some service, that was expected to have cost him his life.  He did not know what it was:  do you?”

“I do not,” said he, answering frankly the honest look of her eyes.  “I can scarcely believe any one was foolish enough to think of intrusting any serious duty to a man like that.  But still Calabressa hints as much; and I know he left England with Calabressa.”

“Natalushka,” the mother said, cautiously, and yet with an anxious scrutiny, “I have often wondered—­whether you knew much—­much about the Society.”

“Oh no, mother!  I am allowed to translate, and sometimes I hear that help is to be given here or there; but I am in no secrets at all.  That is my misfortune.”

The mother seemed much relieved.

“It is not a misfortune, child.  You are happier as you are, I think.  Then,” she added, with a quick glance, “you have never heard of one—­Bartolotti?”

“No,” she answered; but directly afterwards she exclaimed, “Oh yes, yes!  Bartolotti, that is the name Calabressa gave me.  He said if ever I was in very serious trouble, I was to go to Naples; and that was the password.  But I thought to myself, ’If I am in trouble, why should I not go to my own father?’”

The mother rose and went to the girl, and put her arm round her daughter’s neck, and stooped down.

“Natalushka,” said she, earnestly, “you are wiser than Calabressa.  If you are in trouble, do not seek any help that way.  Go to your father.”

“And to you, mother,” said she, drawing down the worn, beautiful face and kissing it.  “Why not to you also?  Why not to you both?”

The mother smiled, and patted the girl’s head, and then returned to the other side of the table.  Waters brought in some fruit, fresh from Covent Garden.

He also brought in a letter, which he put beside his master’s plate.  Brand did not even look at it; he pushed it aside, to give him more room.  But in pushing it aside he turned it somewhat and Natalie’s eye happening to fall on the address, she perceived at once that it was in the handwriting of her father.

“Dearest,” said she, in a low voice, and rather breathlessly, “the letter is from papa.”

“From your father?” said he, without any great concern.  Then he turned to Natalie’s mother.  “Will you excuse me?  My friends are determined to remind me of their existence to-day.”

But this letter was much shorter than Calabressa’s, though it was friendly enough.

“My Dear Mr. Brand,” it ran,—­“I am glad to hear that you acted with so much promptitude that your preparations for departure are nearly complete.  You are soldier-like.  I have less scruples, therefore, in asking you to be so kind as to give me up to-morrow evening from half-past nine onward, for the consideration of a very serious order that has been transmitted to us from the Council.  You will perceive that this claims precedence over any of our local arrangements; and as it may even involve the abandonment of your voyage to America, it will be advisable to give it immediate consideration.  I trust the hour of half-past nine will not interfere with any engagement.