"It is a pity. The unfortunate wretch has had enough trouble. But what is the cause of it?"
"It is rather difficult to explain," said Edwards with some embarrassment. "One can only guess, for his brain is muddled, and he maunders. You know Calabressa's flowery, poetical interpretation. It was Miss Lind, in fact, who had worked a miracle. Well, there was something in it. She was kind to him, after he had been cuffed about Europe, and a sort of passion of gratitude took possession of him. Then he was led to believe at that time that—that he might be of service to her or her friends, and he gave up his projects of revenge altogether—he was ready for any sacrifice—and, in fact, there was a project—" Edwards glanced at his companion; but Brand happened at that moment to be looking out of the window.
"Well, you see, all that fell through; and he had to come back to England disappointed; then there was no Calabressa to keep him up to his resolutions: besides that, he found out—how, I do not know—that Miss Lind had left London."
"Oh, he found that out?"
"Apparently. And he says he is of no further use to anybody; and all he wants is to kill the man Michaieloff, and then make an end of himself."
Brand rose at once.
"We must go and see the unfortunate devil, Edwards. His brain never was steady, you know, and I suppose even two or three days' hard drinking has made him wild again. And just as I had prepared a little surprise for him!"
"What?" Edwards asked, as he opened the door.
"I have made him a little bequest that would have produced him about twenty pounds a year, to pay his rent. It will be no kindness to give it to him until we see him straight again."