And now--now he might even see her alone for a couple of minutes in the hushed little drawing-room; and she might say if she had heard about what had been done in the North, and about his eagerness to return to the work. One look of thanks; that was enough. Sometimes, by himself up there in the solitary inns, the old fit had come over him; and he had laughed at himself, and wondered at this new fire of occupation and interest that was blazing through his life, and asked himself, as of old, to what end--to what end? But when he heard Natalie Lind's voice, there was a quick good-bye to all questioning. One look at the calm, earnest eyes, and he drank deep of faith, courage, devotion. And surely this story of the man Kirski--what he could tell her of it--would be sufficient to fill up five minutes, eight minutes, ten minute, while all the time he should be able to dwell on her eyes, whether they were downcast, or turned to his with their frank, soft glance. He should be in the perfume of the small drawing-room. He would see the Roman necklace Mazzini had given her gleam on her bosom as she breathed. He did not know what Natalie Lind had been about during his absence. "Anneli, Anneli--hither, child!" she called in German. "Run up to Madame Potecki, and ask her to come and spend the afternoon with me. She must come at once, to lunch with me; I will wait." "Yes, Fraulein. What music, Fraulein?" "None; never mind any music. But she must come at once." "Schon, Fraulein," said the little Anneli, about to depart. Her young mistress called her back, and paused, with a little hesitation. "You may tell Elizabeth," said she, with an indifferent air, "that it is possible--it is quite possible--it is at least possible--I may have two friends to lunch with me; and she must send at once if she wants anything more. And you could bring me back some fresh flowers, Anneli?" "Why not, Fraulein?" "Go quick, then, Anneli--fly like a roe--_durch Wald und auf der Haide_!" And so it came about that when George Brand was ushered into the scented little drawing-room--so anxious to make the most of the invaluable minutes--he found himself introduced first of all to Madame Potecki, a voluble, energetic little Polish gentlewoman, whose husband had been killed in the Warsaw disturbances of '61, and who now supported herself in London by teaching music. She was eager to know all about the man Kirski, and hoped that he was not wholly a maniac, and trusted that Mr. Brand would see that her dear child--her adopted daughter, she might say--was not terrified again by the madman. "My dear madame," said Brand, "you must not imagine that it was from terror that Miss Lind handed over the man to me--it was from kindness. That is more natural to her than terror." "Ah, I know the dear child has the courage of an army," said the little old lady, tapping her adopted daughter on the shoulder with the fan. "But she must take care of herself while her papa is away in America."