Lord Sydney smiled, and as the other led him to a seat-- "We promised to write to each other." "We were very young," Brand chuckled. "So you went soldiering, I to my trade." "Each to his tribe, and God for all," said Sydney. "I used to envy you." "I wanted to be a soldier," answered Brand. "But, Sydney, why all this secrecy; why put your card in a sealed envelope?" The soldier's face turned grave. "I have good reason. These walls," he looked anxiously about him, "have they ears?" "Sydney, this isn't London." "May I look round?" Brand laughed, but his visitor walked to the door and opened it suddenly, making a rapid survey of the ante-room. Other doors he examined which led to the safe, and to Brand's private chambers; then considering the walls and hangings, returned to his place. "I should have been followed from London," he explained, "but I hired an actor to personate me, and he is leading a fine chase of spies to Stamboul." "Who has you watched?" "My father, and when he knows I've been here you'll catch the infection. I warn you, Brand." "My dear fellow, your father----" The Guardsman's eyes flashed ominously, his jaws hardened. "What do you know of my father?" "Chancellor of the Empire, his Grace the Duke of Ulster, K.G., and a lot more twaddle." "By the Almanac, yes, and head of the Gold Party which sits up to hate you all night. Come, speak out!" "My dear fellow, I never met your father. In politics I like fighting him, and I think he likes fighting me. He would never speak evil of me as a private man." "Or you of Ulster? Well, I can't blame your courtesy, Brand, I don't understand your politics. They say that you finance the Labour Party. You've been accused of Socialism." Brand chuckled. "Have you heard about my eating babies?" "Even a cannibal might love his country. Brand, I'm in horrible trouble, and I've come to you for help." "You've come to me for help. Go on, old chap." "In politics you can accuse a man without any feeling of hatred?" "I would not have him butchered." "Not even if your opponent granted the Peacock Throne to Ali of Haidar?" Brand's face flashed with anger. "My friend, spare me all mention of that," he said. "Is it a kind thing, Lord Sydney, to tear the old wound open?" "Does it hurt me less? I'd go on if it killed both of us, and you shall listen." "Perhaps you don't know," answered Brand, "that my young brother saw his wife crucified, before the rebels gouged out his eyes and burned him." "Would you treat the man as a mere political opponent who granted the Peacock Throne to Ali of Haidar?" "The Viceroy died by his own hand. He is beyond our vengeance." "Vengeance?" cried Sydney, "my words bite deep. Is vengeance in your code of political courtesy? I tell you the man who granted Prince Ali's claims is still alive, within the reach of vengeance. He drove the Viceroy to suicide, and thought that under heaven there was no witness left to rise against him."