Even in the first shock of this untimely death, though timely discovery, Mallow kept his wits about him. That Brock was truly Michael Trall he made no doubt. For, in truth, Jeremiah had neither the capacity nor the reason to simulate relationship of the kind. Moreover, nothing surely could be more conclusive than the fatal effect which this unexpected meeting had had for Brock, beside whom now the wretched man dropped into prayer and supplication. He called upon him to recover, implored him for a sign--a look. He wept bitterly. Mallow did not molest him. He was totally unfit for rational conversation. Poor Brock--he may still be called so for the avoidance of confusion--was quite dead. Mallow slipped his hand under his clothes on to the heart to make quite sure. The sight of his brother, and the knowledge of what would follow, had done their work and snuffed him out of this life. "Come now, Trall," said Mallow. "You must try and pull yourself together, and, what's more, you must not say a word about this. No one must know--understand, Trall, no one. As Mr. Brock he lived--as Mr. Brock he died." "But he is my own brother Michael." "I believe you, Trall; but reticence, absolute silence on that point, is necessary, if only for your own safety. Remember the Brotherhood!" That was quite enough for Trall. He promised implicit obedience. "And I'll sit in this corner as quiet as a mouse, Mr. Mallow," he concluded, "if only you'll let me. Don't! oh, don't take me away." "Well, you may remain there for the present. But, remember, not a word to any one about this."