“It is bad enough, but not irreparable,” said Edwards, calmly.  “If a member here or there falls out, the association remains; if one of its high officers betrays his trust, you see how swift and terrible the punishment is.”

“I do not,” said Brand.  “I see that the paper decree is swift enough, but what about the execution of it?  Have the Council a body of executioners?”

“I don’t know about that,” said Edwards, simply; “but I know that when I was in Naples with Calabressa, I heard of the fate of several against whom decrees had been pronounced; and I know that in every instance they anticipated their own fate; the horror of being continually on the watch was too much for them.  You may depend on it, that is what Lind will do.  He is a proud man.  He will not go slinking about, afraid at every street-corner of the knife of the Little Chaffinch, or some other of those Camorra fellows—­”

“Edwards,” said Brand, hastily, “there is a taint of blood—­of treachery—­about this whole affair that sickens me.  It terrifies me when I think of what lies ahead.  I—­I think I have already tasted death, and the taste is still bitter in the mouth.  I must get into the fresh air.”

Edwards got his coat and hat, and followed.  He saw that his companion was strangely excited.

“If all this work—­if all we have been looking forward to—­were to turn out to be a delusion,” Brand said, hurriedly, when they had got into the dark clear night outside, “that would be worse than the suicide of Ferdinand Lind or the disappearance of Beratinsky.  If this is to be the end—­if these are our companions—­”

“But how can you suggest such a thing?” Edwards protested.  “Your imagination is filled with blackness, Brand.  You are disturbed, shocked, afraid.  Why, who are your colleagues?  What do you think of—­” Here he mentioned a whole string of names, some of them those of well-known Englishmen.  “Do you accuse them of treachery?  Have you not perfect confidence in them?  Have they not perfect confidence in the work we are all pledged to?”

But he could not shake off this horrible feeling.  He wished to be alone, to fight with it; he did not even think of going to Lord Evelyn; perhaps it was now too late.  Shortly afterward he bade Edwards good-night, and made his way to his rooms at the foot of Buckingham Street.

Waters had left the lights low; he did not turn them up.  Outside lay the black night-world of London, hushed and silent, with its thousand golden points of fire.  He was glad to be alone.

And yet an unknown feeling of dread was upon him.  It seemed as if now for the first time he realized what a terrible destiny had nearly been his; and that his escape, so far from rendering him joyful, had left him still trembling and horrified.  Hitherto his pride had conquered.  Even as he had undertaking that duty, it was his pride that had kept him outwardly calm and indifferent.  He would not show fear, he would not even show repugnance, before these men.  And it was pride, too, that had taught him at length and successfully to crush down certain vague rebellions of conscience.  He would not go back from his oath.  He would not go back from the promise to which Natalie’s ring bound him.  He would go through with this thing, and bid farewell to life; further than that no one could have demands on him.