He was greatly distressed; but in his distress he became desperate.  He would not look that way at all.  He boldly justified himself for what he had done, and strove to regard it with satisfaction.  What if both Lind and Beratinsky were to suffer; had they not merited any punishment that might befall them?  Had they not compassed the destruction of an innocent man?  Would it have been better, then, that George Brand should have become the victim of an infamous conspiracy? Fiat justitia!—­no matter at what cost.  Natalie must face the truth.  Better that the guilty should suffer than the innocent.  And he, Calabressa, for one, was not going to shirk any responsibility for what might happen.  He had obeyed the orders of the Council.  He had done his duty:  that was enough.

He forced himself not to think of Natalie, and of the dismay and horror with which she would learn of one of the consequences of her appeal.  This was a matter between men—­to be settled by men:  if the consciences of women were tender, it could not be helped.  Calabressa walked faster and faster, as it he were trying to get away from something that followed and annoyed him.  He pretended to himself that he was deeply interested in a shop-window here or there; occasionally he whistled; he sung “Vado a Napoli in barchetta” with forced gayety; he twisted his long white moustache, and then he made his way down to Brand’s rooms.

Here he was also very gay.

“Now, my dear Monsieur Brand, to-day I have idleness; to-day I will talk to you; yesterday I could not.”

“Unfortunately,” said Brand, “our positions are reversed now, for here is a letter from Lind wanting me to go up to Lisle Street.  It seems Reitzei has had to go off into the country, leaving a lot of correspondence—­”

“You are, then, on good terms with Lind?” Calabressa interposed, quickly.

“Yes; why not?” said Brand, with a stare.

“I, also—­I say, why not?  It is excellent.  Then you have no time for my chatter?” said Calabressa, carelessly regarding the open letter.

“At least you can tell me something about Natalie and her mother.  Are they well?  What hotel are they at?”

Calabressa laughed.

“Yes, yes, my friend Monsieur Brand, you say, ‘Are they well?’ What you mean is, ‘What has taken them to Naples?’ Bien, you are right to wonder; you will not have to wonder long.  A little patience; you will hear something; do not be surprised.  And you have no message, for example, by way of reply to the letter I brought you?”

“You are returning to Naples, then?”

“To-night.  I will take a message for you:  if you have no time now, send it to me at Charing Cross.  Meanwhile, I take my leave.”

Calabressa rose, but was persuaded to resume his seat.