“A man who has this mark, branded in this place,” he said, covering his arm again, “is a member of the Brotherhood.  A man who has been false to the Brotherhood is discovered sooner or later by the chiefs who know him—­presidents or secretaries, as the case may be.  And a man discovered by the chiefs is dead.  No human laws can protect him.  Remember what you have seen and heard—­draw what conclusions you like—­act as you please.  But, in the name of God, whatever you discover, whatever you do, tell me nothing!  Let me remain free from a responsibility which it horrifies me to think of—­which I know, in my conscience, is not my responsibility now.  For the last time I say it—­on my honour as a gentleman, on my oath as a Christian, if the man you pointed out at the Opera knows me, he is so altered, or so disguised, that I do not know him.  I am ignorant of his proceedings or his purposes in England.  I never saw him, I never heard the name he goes by, to my knowledge, before to-night.  I say no more.  Leave me a little, Walter.  I am overpowered by what has happened—­I am shaken by what I have said.  Let me try to be like myself again when we meet next.

He dropped into a chair, and turning away from me, hid his face in his hands.  I gently opened the door so as not to disturb him, and spoke my few parting words in low tones, which he might hear or not, as he pleased.

“I will keep the memory of to-night in my heart of hearts,” I said.  “You shall never repent the trust you have reposed in me.  May I come to you to-morrow?  May I come as early as nine o’clock?”

“Yes, Walter,” he replied, looking up at me kindly, and speaking in English once more, as if his one anxiety now was to get back to our former relations towards each other.  “Come to my little bit of breakfast before I go my ways among the pupils that I teach.”

“Good-night, Pesca.”

“Good-night, my friend.”

VI

My first conviction as soon as I found myself outside the house, was that no alternative was left me but to act at once on the information I had received—­to make sure of the Count that night, or to risk the loss, if I only delayed till the morning, of Laura’s last chance.  I looked at my watch—­it was ten o’clock.

Not the shadow of a doubt crossed my mind of the purpose for which the Count had left the theatre.  His escape from us, that evening, was beyond all question the preliminary only to his escape from London.  The mark of the Brotherhood was on his arm—­I felt as certain of it as if he had shown me the brand; and the betrayal of the Brotherhood was on his conscience—­I had seen it in his recognition of Pesca.