"That is true," his friend said. "He might command. But the question is whether she would obey. I have known Natalie Lind longer than you have. She is capable of thinking and acting for herself."
Nothing further was said on this point; they proceeded to talk of other matters. It was perhaps a quarter of an hour afterward—close on eleven o'clock—that Waters knocked at the door and then came into the room.
"A letter for you, sir."
A quick glance at the envelope startled him.
"How did you get it?" he said instantly.
"A girl brought it, sir, in a cab. She is gone again. There was no answer, she said."
Waters withdrew. Brand hastily opened the letter, and read the following lines, written in pencil, apparently with a trembling hand:
"Dearest,—I spent this evening with Madame Potecki. My father came for me, and on the way home has told me something of what has occurred. It was for the purpose of telling me that you and I must not meet again—never, never. My own, I cannot allow you to pass a single night, or a single hour, thinking such a thing possible. Have I not promised to you? When it is your wish to see me, come to me: I am yours. Good-night, and Heaven guard you!
"NATALIE."
George Brand turned to his friend.