Hinge accepted the key, and, saluting, left the room without a word, though with a curious look both at Brunow and myself. When he had gone Brunow threw himself into a chair and drew out a cigar-case. He opened it, and selected and lit a cigar, though he shook so that he only succeeded with an expenditure of some half a dozen matches. When he had got a light at last he threw himself back and puffed away with as complete an expression of _insouciance_ as he could command. I, of course, had nothing to say until Hinge returned, though I knew perfectly well beforehand what the result of his errand would be. He came back at last, and when his step was heard upon the stair Brunow looked more ghastly than ever as he turned his face towards me. When Hinge came in empty-handed the poor detected wretch rose with a pretence of bluster which was miserable to see. “Why the devil,” he cried, “haven't you done what you were told to do? This is a pretty servant of yours. Why hasn't he brought the things back as he was told to do?” Hinge said nothing, but looked from me to my visitor in some bewilderment. “You hear!” cried Brunow, rising and throwing the stump of his cigar into the grate with a sickly pretence of anger. “Beg your pardon, sir,” said Hinge; “there's Mr. Brunow's key, sir. Seems to me I've been sent on a fool's errand. Mr. Brunow's man wants to know what I mean by coming with a message like that. He says Mr. Brunow hasn't been at home since half-past six this evening. Mr. Brunow's man, sir,” Hinge pursued, “seemed to think I was trying to make a fool of him.” “That will do,” I answered. “You have obeyed your orders, and that is all you have to think about. Go and wait outside.” He went, but I could see that he nursed a little sense of injury. I turned to Brunow and asked him: “Is the game played out yet, or have you any other shift to show me?” He made no answer at the minute, but fumbled in his pocket again for his cigar-case, with the same shaky and uncertain motion as before. He avoided my eyes, though every now and then he looked towards me as if in spite of himself. For my own part, I could not look away from him, and I do not know now whether I felt more rage or more contempt or more pity for him. I had not thought him so cowardly as he showed himself to be. “It is for you,” I told him at last, “to explain your actions of to-night. You know what the situation means. I charge you here with having betrayed a comrade whom you had sworn, in common with the rest of us, to stand by to the last. If I had brought the charge I am making now against you a little more than half an hour ago it would have gone hard with you. You are as well aware of that fact as I am, and you know that nothing could have saved you from my just renunciation but the memory of an old friendship, of which you have proved yourself utterly unworthy.”