Part 34 (1/2)

”Friend Lind, I think that is well understood at head-quarters.”

”Very well, then, Calabressa, what do you think? Consider what I have done; consider what I have now to do--what I may yet do. There is this Zaccatelli business. I do not approve of it myself. I think it is a mistake, as far as England is concerned. The English will not hear of a.s.sa.s.sination, even though it is such a criminal as the _cardinale affamatore_ who is to be punished. But though I do not approve, I obey.

Some one from the English section will fulfil that duty: it is something to be considered. Then money; think of the money I have contributed.

Without English money what would have been done? when there is any new levy wanted, it is to England--to me--they apply first; and at the present moment their cry for money is more urgent than ever. Very well, then, my Calabressa; what do you think of all this?”

Calabressa seemed somewhat embarra.s.sed.

”Friend Lind, I am not so far into their secrets as that. Being in prison so long, one loses terms of familiarity with many of one's old a.s.sociates, you perceive. But your claims are undoubted, my friend; yes, yes, undoubted.”

”But what do you think, Calabressa?” he said; and that affectation of carelessness had now gone: there was an eager look in the deep-set eyes under the bushy eyebrows. ”What do you yourself think of my chance? It ought to be no chance; it ought to be a certainty. It is my due. I claim it as the reward of my sixteen years' work, to say nothing of what went before.”

”_Ah, naturellement, sans doute, tu as raison, mon camarade,_” said the politic Calabressa, endeavoring to get out of the difficulty with a shrug of his shoulders. ”But--but--the more one knows of the Council the more one fears prying into its secrets. No, no; I do what I am told; for the rest my ears are closed.”

”If I were on the Council, Calabressa,” said Lind, slowly, ”you would be treated with more consideration. You have earned as much.”

”A thousand thanks, friend Lind,” said the other; ”but I have no more ambitions now. The time for that is past. Let them make what they can out of old Calabressa--a stick to beat a dog with; as long as I have my liberty and a cigarette, I am content.”

”Ah, well,” said Lind, resuming his careless air, ”you must not imagine I am seriously troubled because the Council have not as yet seen fit to think of what I have done for them. I am their obedient servant, like yourself. Some day, perhaps, I may be summoned.”

”_A la bonne heure!_” said Calabressa, rising. ”No, no more wine. Your port-wine here is glorious--it is a wine for the G.o.ds; but a very little is enough for a man. So, farewell, my good friend Lind. Be kind to the beautiful Natalushka, if that other thing that I spoke of is impossible. If the bounty of Heaven had only given me such a daughter!”

”Kirski will meet you at the station,” said Lind. ”Charing Cross, you remember; eight sharp. The train is 8.25.”

”I will be there.”

They shook hands and parted; the door was shut. Then, in the street outside, Calabressa glanced up at the drawing-room windows just for a second.

”Ah, little daughter,” he said to himself as he turned away, ”you do not know the power of the talisman I have given you. But you will not use it. You will be happy; you will marry the Englishman; you will have little children round your knee; and you will lead so busy and glad a life, year after year, that you will never have a minute to sit down and think of old Calabressa, or of the stupid little map of Naples he left with you.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

AN ALTERNATIVE.

Once again the same great city held these two. When George Brand looked out in the morning on the broad river, and the bridges, and the hurrying cabs and trains and steamers, he knew that this flood of dusky suns.h.i.+ne was falling also on the quieter ways of Hyde Park and semi-silent thoroughfares adjoining. They were in the same city, but they were far apart. An invisible barrier separated them. It was not to Curzon Street that he directed his steps when he went out into the still, close air and the misty sunlight.

It was to Lisle Street that he walked; and all the way he was persuading himself to follow Calabressa's advice. He would betray no impatience, however specious Lind might be. He would shut down that distrust of Natalie's father that was continually springing up in his mind. He would be considerate to the difficulties of his position, ready to admit the reasonableness of his arguments, mindful of the higher duties demanded of himself. But then--but then--he bethought him of that evening at the theatre; he remembered what she had said; how she had looked. He was not going to give up his beautiful, proud-natured sweetheart as a mere matter of expediency, as the conclusion of a clever bit of argument.

When he entered Mr. Lind's room he found Heinrich Reitzei its sole occupant. Lind had not yet arrived: the pallid-faced young man with the _pince-nez_ was in possession of his chair. And no sooner had George Brand made his appearance than Reitzei rose, and, with a significant smile, motioned the new-comer to take the vacant seat he had just quitted.

”What do you mean?” Brand said, naturally taking another chair, which was much nearer him.

”Will you not soon be occupying this seat _en permanence_?” Reitzei said, with affected nonchalance.

”Lind has abdicated, then, I presume,” said Brand, coldly: this young man's manner had never been very grateful to him.

Reitzei sunk into the seat again, and twirled at his little black waxed mustache.

”Abdicated? No; not yet,” he said with an air of indifference. ”But if one were to be translated to a higher sphere?--there is a vacancy in the Council.”