Brand started.  The man who was speaking took no notice.

“There were two Austrian officers, a Roumanian count, and an Englishman,” he continued, in the most matter-of-fact way.  “It was in a private room, as I said.  The Englishman was, after a time, convinced that the Roumanian was cheating; he caught his wrist—­showed the false cards; then he managed to ward off the blow of a dagger which the Roumanian aimed at him, and by main force carried him to the door and threw him down-stairs.  It was cleverly done, but the Englishman was very big and strong.  Afterward the two Austrian officers, who knew the Verdt family, begged the Englishman never to reveal what had occurred; and the three promised secrecy.  Was not that so?”

The man looked up carelessly.  The Englishman’s apathy was no longer visible.

“Y-yes,” he stammered.

“Would you like to know what became of Count Verdt?” he asked, with an air of indifference.

“Yes, certainly,” said the other.

“Ah!  Of course you know the Castel’ del Ovo?”

“At Naples?  Yes.”

“You remember that out at the point, beside the way that leads from the shore to the fortress, there are many big rocks, and the waves roll about there.  Three weeks after you caught Count Verdt cheating at cards, his dead body was found floating there.”

“Gracious heavens!” Brand exclaimed, with his face grown pale.  And then he added, breathlessly, “Suicide?”

Mr. Lind smiled.

“No.  Reassure yourself.  When they picked out the body from the water, they found the mouth gagged, and the hands tied behind the back.”

Brand stared at this man.

“Then you—?” He dared not complete the question.

“I?  Oh, I had nothing to do with it, any more than yourself.  It was a Camorra affair.”

He had been speaking quite indifferently; but now a singular change came over his manner.

“And if I had had something to do with it?” he said, vehemently; and the dark eyes were burning with a quick anger under the heavy brows.  Then he spoke more slowly, but with a firm emphasis in his speech.  “I will tell you a little story; it will not detain you, sir.  Suppose that you have a prison so overstocked with political prisoners that you must keep sixty or seventy in the open yard adjoining the outer wall.  You have little to fear; they are harmless, poor wretches; there are several old men—­two women.  Ah! but what are the poor devils to do in those long nights that are so dark and so cold?  However they may huddle together, they freeze; if they keep not moving, they die; you find them dead in the morning.  If you are a Czar you are glad of that, for your prisons are choked; it is very convenient.  And, then suppose you have a clever fellow who finds out a narrow passage between the implement-house and the wall; and he says, ’There, you can work all night at digging a passage out; and