"So he escaped, after all!" he murmured to himself, as he walked down the street, with an occasional nervous glance to the right and left. "I thought I had done my work effectually: I did not know I was such a bungler. Does he guess who attacked him, I wonder? I suppose not, or I should have heard of the matter before now. Fortunate that I took the precaution of drugging him first. What an escape! And he has got hold of Heron! I shall have to make sure of the old lady pretty soon, or I foresee that Netherglen--and Kitty--never will be mine." CHAPTER XXX. FRIENDS AND BROTHERS. In a little room on the second-floor of a London lodging-house near Manchester-square, Brian Luttrell was packing a box, with the few scanty possessions that he called his own. He had little light to see by, for the slender, tallow candle burnt with a very uncertain flame: the glare of the gas lamps in the street gave almost a better light. The floor was uncarpeted, the furniture scanty and poor: the fire in the grate smouldered miserably, and languished for want of fuel. But there was a contented look on Brian's face. He even whistled and hummed to himself as he packed his box, and though the tune broke down, and ended with a sigh, it showed a mind more at ease than Brian's had been for many a long day. "Heigho!" he said, rising from his task, and giving the box a shove with his foot into a corner, "I wonder where Dino is? He ought not to be out so late with that cough of his. I suppose he has gone to Brett and Grattan's. I am glad the dear fellow has put himself into their hands. Right ought to be done: she would have said so herself, and I know Dino will be generous. It would suit him very well to take a money compensation, and let her continue to reign, with glories somewhat shorn, however, at Strathleckie. I am afraid he will do nothing but enrich San Stefano with his inheritance. He certainly will not settle down at Netherglen as a country squire. "What will my mother say? Pooh! I must get out of that habit of calling her my mother. She is no relation of mine, as she herself told me. Mrs. Luttrell!--it sounds a little odd. Odder, too, to think that I must never sign myself Brian Luttrell any more. Bernardino Vasari! I think I might as well stick to the plain John Stretton, which I adopted on the spur of the moment at San Stefano. I suppose I shall soon have to meet the woman who calls herself--who is--my mother. I will say nothing harsh or unkind to her, poor thing! She has done herself a greater injury than she has done me." So he meditated, with his face bent over his folded arms upon the mantelpiece. A slow step on the stair roused him, he poked the fire vigorously, lighted another candle, and then opened the door. "Is that you, Dino?" he said. "Where have you been for the last three hours?"