as Calabressa shrewdly perceived, Reitzei was in the dark as to how much the Council knew already.  Moreover, he had his suspicions of Beratinsky.  If there was to be a betrayal, he was clearly resolved to have the benefit of it.  Nevertheless, Calabressa did not lose sight of him for a moment.  He took him to his, Calabressa’s lodgings; kept assuring him that he ought to be very grateful for being thus allowed to escape; got him to write and despatch a note to Lind, excusing himself for that day and the next, and then proceeded to give him instructions as to what he should do in Naples.  These instructions, by-the-way, were entirely unnecessary; it is no part of Calabressa’s plan to allow Reitzei to arrive in Naples alone.

After a mid-day meal, Calabressa and Reitzei walked up to the lodgings of the latter, where he got a few travelling things put together.  By-and-by they went to the railway station, Calabressa suggesting that it was better for Reitzei to get away from London as soon as possible.  The old albino saw his companion take his seat in the train for Dover, and then turned away and re-entered the busy world of the London streets.

The day was fine after the rain; the pavements were white and dry; he kept in the sunlight for the sake of the warmth; but he had not much attention for the sights and sounds around him.  Now that this sudden scheme promised to be entirely successful, he could consider the probable consequences of that success; and, as usual, his first thought was about Natalie.

“Poor child—­poor child!” he said to himself, rather sadly.  “How could she tell how this would end?  If she saves the life of her lover, it is at the cost of the life of her father.  The poor child!—­must misfortune meet her whichever way she turns?”

And then, too, some touch of compunction or even remorse entered into his own bosom.  He had been so eager in the pursuit? he had been so anxious to acquit himself to the satisfaction of the Council, that he had scarcely remembered that his success would almost certainly involve the sacrifice of one who was at least an old colleague.  Ferdinand Lind and Calabressa had never been the very best of friends; during one period, indeed, they had been rivals; but that had been forgotten in the course of years, and what Calabressa now remembered was that Lind and he had at least been companions in the old days.

“Seventeen years ago,” he was thinking, “he forfeited his life to the Society, and they gave it back to him.  They will not pardon him this time.  And who is to take the news to Natalie and the beautiful brave child?  Ah, what will she say?  My God, is there no happiness for any one in this world?”