He drank his absinthe at a draught and left the café. Brandon made some good excuse and followed upon his heels.
“Forgive me,” he said, as they stood together for a moment at the gate of the gardens, “but you are sure of what you say?”
“Sure of it? Absolutely. It is news from the Chambers—and it means but one thing, Monsieur. We shall be in Berlin in a fortnight.”
“But they may withdraw—”
“I am going to church to-morrow to pray that they will not.”
He pulled his cloak about his shoulders and went swaggering away. But Brandon returned quickly to his house in the Rue des Pierres. It was as though a word had put fire into his veins.