“As for me,” said Edwards, carelessly, “now that I have left the Museum I don’t care where I may have to go.”

At this moment a note was brought in by the old German, and handed to Edwards.  He glanced at the straggling, almost illegible, address in pencil on the dirty envelope.

“Well, this is too bad,” he said, impatiently.

“What is it?”

“That fellow Kirski.  He is off again.  I can see by his writing.  He never was very good at it; but this is the handwriting of delirium tremens.”

He opened the letter, and glanced at the first page.

“Oh yes,” he said, in disgust, “he’s off again, clearly.”

“What does he say?”

“The usual rigmarole—­only not quite so legible.  The beautiful angel who was so kind to him—­he has taken her portrait from its hiding-place—­it is sacred now—­no more public house—­well, it looks rather as if he had been to several.”

At this point, however, Edwards’s pale, high forehead flushed a little.

“I wish I had not told him; but he speaks of Miss Lind being in trouble—­and he says God never meant one so beautiful and kind as she to be in trouble—­and if her father—­”

His face grew grave.

“What is this?”

He turned the leaf suddenly, and glanced at the remainder of the letter.

“Good God! what does the man mean?  What has he done?” he exclaimed.

His face was quite pale.  The letter dropped from his hands.  Then he jumped to his feet.

“Come, Brand—­quick—­quick!” he said, hurriedly.  “You must come with me—­”

“But what is the matter?” Brand said, following him in amazement.

“I don’t know,” said Edwards, almost incoherently.  “He may be raving—­it may only be drunkenness—­but he says he is about to kill himself in place of Lind:  the young lady shall not be troubled—­she was kind to him, and he is grateful.  I am to send her a message.”

By this time the two friends were hurrying to the dingy little thoroughfare in which Kirski had his lodgings.

“Don’t alarm yourself, Edwards,” said Brand; “he has broken out again, that is all.”

“I am not so sure.  He was at his work yesterday, and sober enough.”

“His brain may have given way, then; it was never very strong.  But these continual ravings about murder or suicide are dangerous; they will develop into homicidal mania, most likely; and if he cannot get at his enemy Michaieloff he may do a mischief to somebody else.”

“I hope he has not done a mischief to himself already,” said Edwards, who had had more opportunities than his companion of studying the workings of Kirski’s disordered brain.

They reached the house and knocked at the door.  The landlady made her appearance.

“Is Kirski in the house?” Edwards asked, eagerly.

“No, he ain’t,” she said, with but scant courtesy.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed, in great relief.  “You are sure?  He went out to his work as usual?”