“What is the use of discussion?” was the placid answer.  “What would you have me do?—­break my oaths—­put aside my sacred promise made to Natalie, and give up the Society altogether?  My good fellow, let us talk of something less impossible.”

And indeed, though he deprecated discussion on this point, he was anxious to talk.  The fact was that of late he had come to fear sleep, as the look of his eyes testified.  In the daytime, or as long as he could sit up with a companion, he could force himself to think only of the immediate and practical demands of the hour; vain regrets over what might have been—­and even occasional uneasy searchings of conscience—­he could by an effort of will ignore.  He had accepted his fate; he had schooled himself to look forward to it without fear; henceforth there was to be no indecision, no murmur of complaint.  But in the night-time—­in dreams—­the natural craving for life asserted itself; it seemed so sad to bid good-bye forever to those whom he had known and loved; and mostly always it was Natalie herself who stood there, regarding him with streaming eyes, and wringing her hands, and sobbing to him farewell.  The morning light, or the first calls in the thoroughfare below, or the shrieking of some railway-whistle on Hungerford Bridge brought an inexpressible relief by banishing these agonizing visions.  No matter how soon Waters was astir, he found his master up before him—­dressed, and walking up and down the room, or reading some evening newspaper of the previous day.  Sometimes Brand occupied himself in getting ready his own breakfast, but he had to explain to Waters that this was not meant as a rebuke—­it was merely that, being awake early, he wished for some occupation.

Early on the morning after this last despairing protest on the part of Lord Evelyn, Brand drove up to Paddington Station, on his way to pay a hurried visit to his Buckinghamshire home.  Nearly all his affairs had been settled in town; there remained some arrangements to be made in the country.  Lord Evelyn was to have joined him in this excursion, but at the last moment had not put in an appearance; so Brand jumped in just as the train was starting, and found himself alone in the carriage.

The bundle of newspapers he had with him did not seem to interest him much.  He was more than ever puzzled to account for the continued silence of Natalie.  Each morning he had been confidently expecting to hear from her—­to have some explanation of her sudden departure—­but as the days went by, and no message of any sort arrived, his wonder became merged in anxiety.  It seemed so strange that she should thus absent herself, when she had been counting on each day on which she might see him as if it were some gracious gift from Heaven.

All that he was certain of in the matter was that Lind knew no more than himself as to where Natalie had gone.  One afternoon, going out from his rooms into Buckingham Street, he caught sight of Beratinsky loitering about farther up the little thoroughfare, about the corner of John Street.  Beratinsky’s back was turned to him, and so he took advantage of the moment to open the gate, for which he had a private key, leading down to the old York Gate; from thence he made his way round by Villiers Street, whence he could get a better view of the little black-a-vised Pole’s proceedings.