He speedily convinced himself that Beratinsky, though occasionally he walked along in the direction of Adam Street, and though sometimes he would leisurely stroll up to the Strand, was in reality keeping an eye on Buckingham Street and he had not the least doubt that he himself was the object of this surveillance.  He laughed to himself.  Had these wise people in Lisle Street, then, discovering that Natalie’s mother was in London, arrived at the conclusion that she and her daughter had taken refuge in so very open a place of shelter?  When Beratinsky was least expecting any such encounter, Brand went up and tapped him on the shoulder.

“How do you do, Mr. Beratinsky?” said he, when the other wheeled round.  “This is not the most agreeable place for a stroll.  Why do you not go down to the Embankment Gardens?”

Beratinsky was angry and confused, but did not quite lose his self-command.

“I am waiting for some one,” he said, curtly.

“Or to find out about some one?  Well, I will save you some trouble.  Lind wishes to know where his wife and daughter are, I imagine.”

“Is that unnatural?”

“I suppose not.  I heard he had been down to Hans Place, where Madame Lind was staying.”

“You knew, then?” the other said, quickly.

“Oh yes, I knew.  Now, if you will be frank with me, I may be of some assistance to you.  Lind does not know where his wife and daughter are?”

“You know he does not.”

“And you—­perhaps you fancied that one or other might be sending a message to me—­might call, perhaps—­or even that I might have got them rooms for the time being?”

The Englishman’s penetrating gray eyes were difficult to avoid.

“You appear to know a good deal, Mr. Brand,” Beratinsky said, somewhat sulkily.  “Perhaps you can tell me where they are now?”

“I can tell you where they are not, and that is in London.”

The other looked surprised, then suspicious.

“Oh, believe me or not, as you please:  I only wish to save you trouble.  I tell you that, to the best of my belief, Miss Lind and her mother are not in London, nor in this country even.”

“How do you know?”

“Pardon me; you are going too far.  I only tell you what I believe.  In return, as I have saved you some trouble, I shall expect you to let me know if you hear anything about them.  Is that too much to ask?”

“Then you really don’t know where they are?” Beratinsky said, with a quick glance.

“I do not; but they have left London—­that I know.”

“I am very much obliged to you,” said the other, more humbly.  “I wish you good evening, Mr. Brand.”

“Stay a moment.  Can you tell me what Yacov Kirski’s address is?  I have something to arrange with him before I leave England.”

He took out his note-book, and put down the address that Beratinsky gave him.  Then the latter moved away, taking off his hat politely, but not shaking hands.