“Well, now, Mr. Brand,” he continued, slowly, “let us suppose that when you come to yourself again, you hear the rumors that are about:  you hear, for example, that Count Verdt—­that exceedingly clever man—­has been graciously pardoned by the Czar for revealing the villanous conspiracy of his fellow-prisoners; and that he has gone off to the South with a bag of money.  Do you not think that you would remember the name of that clever person?  Do you not think you would say to yourself, ’Well, it may not be to-day, or to-morrow, or the next day:  but some day?’”

Again the dark eyes glowed; but he had a wonderful self-control.

“You would remember the name, would you not, if you had your sister-in-law, and your only brother, and six or seven of your old friends and comrades all shot on the one night?”

“This was the same Count Verdt?” Brand asked, eagerly.

“Yes,” said the other, after a considerable pause.  Then he added, with an involuntary sigh, “I had been following his movements for some time; but the Camorra stepped in.  They are foolish people, those Camorristi—­foolish and ignorant.  They punish for very trifling offences, and they do not make sufficient warning of their punishments.  Then they are quite imbecile in the way they attempt to regulate labor.”

He was now talking in quite a matter-of-fact way.  The clinched hand was relaxed.

“Besides,” continued Ferdinand Lind, with the cool air of a critic, “their conduct is too scandalous.  The outer world believes they are nothing but an association of thieves and cut-throats; that is because they do not discountenance vulgar and useless crime; because there is not enough authority, nor any proper selection of members.  In the affairs of the world, one has sometimes to make use of queer agents—­that is admitted; and you cannot have any large body of people without finding a few scoundrels among them.  I suppose one might even say that about your very respectable Church of England.  But you only bring a society into disrepute—­you rob it of much usefulness—­you put the law and society against it—­when you make it the refuge of common murderers and thieves.”

“I should hope so,” remarked George Brand.  If this suspected foreigner had resumed his ordinary manner, so had he; he was again the haughty, suspicious, almost supercilious Englishman.

Poor Lord Evelyn!  The lad looked quite distressed.  These two men were so obviously antipathetic that it seemed altogether hopeless to think of their ever coming together.

“Well,” said Mr. Lind, in his ordinary polished and easy manner, “I must not seek to detain you; for it is a cold night to keep horses waiting.  But, Mr. Brand, Lord Evelyn dines with us to-morrow evening; if you have nothing better to do, will you join our little party?  My daughter, I am sure, will be most pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Do, Brand, there’s a good fellow;” struck in his friend.  “I haven’t seen anything of you for such a long time.”