"That explanation of yours," I said, lighting a fresh cigar, and returning to a subject which I had so recently tried to shelve, "isn't it rather vague?" "For the present it must serve," he answered absently. To force him into admitting that his phrase was only a thoughtless exclamation, or induce him to defend it, I said: "It does not serve any reasonable purpose. It adds nothing to knowledge. As it stands, it is neither academic nor practical." Brande looked at me earnestly for a moment, and then said gravely: "The academic value of the explanation will be shown to you if you will join a society I have founded; and its practicalness will soon be made plain whether you join or not." "What do you call this club of yours?" I asked. "We do not call it a club. We call it a Society--the _Cui Bono_ Society," he answered coldly. "I like the name," I returned. "It is suggestive. It may mean anything--or nothing." "You will learn later that the Society means something; a good deal, in fact." This was said in the dry, unemotional tone which I afterwards found was the only sign of displeasure Brande ever permitted himself to show. His arrangements for going on shore at Queenstown had been made early in the day, but he left me to look for his sister, of whom I had seen very little on the voyage. The weather had been rough, and as she was not a good sailor, I had only had a rare glimpse of a very dark and handsome girl, whose society possessed for me a strange attraction, although we were then almost strangers. Indeed, I regretted keenly, as the time of our separation approached, having registered my luggage (consisting largely of curios and mementoes of my travels, of which I was very careful) for Liverpool. My own time was valueless, and it would have been more agreeable to me to continue the journey with the Brandes, no matter where they went.