“The question would be an insult.”

“Oh, do you think so?  Very well; I will not ask it.  But that is the understanding.”  Then he added, more lightly, “Why, would you have the Pilgrim start with his pocket full of sovereigns?  His staff and his wallet are all he is entitled to.  And when one is going to make a big plunge, shouldn’t one strip?”

There was no answer; for Lord Evelyn’s quick ear had caught the sound of wheels in the adjacent street.

“There is my trap,” he said, looking at his watch as he rose.

Waters brought the young man his coat, and then went out to light him down-stairs.

“Good-night, Brand.  Glad to see you are getting into a wholesomer frame of mind.  I shall tell Natalie you are now prepared to admit that there is in the world at least one woman who is not a cheat.”

“I hope you will not utter a word to Miss Lind of any of the nonsense we have been talking,” said Brand, hastily, and with his face grown red.

“All right.  By-the-way, when are you coming up to see the girls?”

“To-morrow afternoon:  will that do?”

“Very well; I shall wait in.”

“Let me see if I remember the order aright,” said Brand, holding up his fingers and counting.  “Rosalys, Blanche, Ermentrude, Agnes, Jane, Frances, Geraldine:  correct?”

“Quite.  I think their mother must forget at times.  Well, good-night.”

“Good-night—­good-night!”

Brand returned to the empty room, and threw wide open one of the windows.  The air was singularly mild for a night in March; but he had been careful of his friend.  Then he dropped into an easy-chair, and opened a letter.

It was the letter from Natalie Lind, which he had held in his hand ever since, eagerly hoping that Evelyn would forget it—­as, in fact, he had done.  And now with what a strange interest he read and re-read it; and weighed all its phrases; and tried to picture her as she wrote these lines; and studied even the peculiarities of the handwriting.  There was a quaint, foreign look here and there—­the capital B, for example, was written in German fashion; and that letter occurred a good many times.  It was Mr. Brand, and Mr. Brand, over and over again—­in this friendly and frank gossip, which had all the brightness of a chat over a new acquaintance who interests one.  He turned to the signature. “Your friend, Natalie.”

Then he walked up and down, slowly and thoughtfully; but ever and again he would turn to the letter to see that he had quite accurately remembered what she had said about the delight of the sail from Calais, and the beautiful flowers at Dover and her gladness at the prospect of their having this new associate and friend.  Then the handwriting again.  The second stroke of the N in her name had a little notch at the top—­German fashion.  It looked a pretty name, as she wrote it.