She went away, leaving Brand and his paralyzed companion with this ghastly object lying prone on the floor.

“Poor devil!” Brand said; “his troubles are at an end now.  I wonder whether I should lift him on to the bed, or wait until they come.”

Then another thought struck him:  and he turned quickly to his companion, who sat there horrified and helpless.

“Edwards,” said he, “you must pull yourself together.  The police will ask you what you know about this affair.  Then you will have to give evidence before the coroner’s inquest.  There is nothing material for you to conceal; but still, no mention must be made of Lisle Street, do you understand?”

Edwards nodded.  His face was of a ghastly white.  Then he rose and said,

“Let us go somewhere else, Brand.”

His companion took him down-stairs into the landlady’s parlor, and got him a glass of water.  Apparently there was not a human being in the house but themselves.

“Do you understand, Edwards?  Give your private address—­not Lisle Street.  Then you can tell the story simply enough:  that unfortunate fellow came all the way from Russia—­virtually a maniac—­you can tell them his story if you like; or shall I?”

“Yes, yes.  It has been too much for me, Brand.  You see, I had no business to tell him about Lind—­”

“The poor wretch would have ended his days miserably anyhow, no doubt in a mad-house, and probably after killing some quite innocent person.  By-the-way, they will ask you how you came to suspect.  Where is that letter?”

Edwards took it from his pocket.

“Tear it up.”

He did so; but Brand took the fragments and put them in his own pocket.

“You can tell them he wrote to you, and from the madness of the letter you thought something was wrong.  You destroyed the letter.  But where is Natalie’s portrait?—­that must not fall into their hands.”

He instantly went up-stairs again, leaving his companion alone.  There was something strange in his entering this room where the corpse lay; it seemed necessary for him to walk on tiptoe:  he uncovered his head.  A glance round the almost empty room speedily showed him what he wanted; there was a small wooden casket in a dusky corner by the window, and that, he made no doubt, was the box the unhappy Kirski had made to contain Natalie’s portrait, and that he had quite recently dug out from its place of concealment.  Brand was surprised, however, to find the casket empty.  Then he glanced at the fireplace; there was a little dust there, as of burnt card-board.  Then he made sure that Kirski himself had taken steps to prevent the portrait falling into alien hands.

Beside the box, however, lay a piece of paper, written over in pencil.  He took it up and made out it was chiefly ill-spelled Italian:  “Whatever punishment may be decreed against any Officer, Companion, or Friend of the Society, may be vicariously borne by any other Officer, Companion, or Friend, who, of his own full and free consent, acts as substitute—­the original offender becoming thereby redeemed, acquitted, and released.” Then followed some words which he could not make out at all.