"Let us go somewhere else, Brand."
His companion took him down-stairs into the landlady's parlor, and got him a glass of water. Apparently there was not a human being in the house but themselves.
"Do you understand, Edwards? Give your private address—not Lisle Street. Then you can tell the story simply enough: that unfortunate fellow came all the way from Russia—virtually a maniac—you can tell them his story if you like; or shall I?"
"Yes, yes. It has been too much for me, Brand. You see, I had no business to tell him about Lind—"
"The poor wretch would have ended his days miserably anyhow, no doubt in a mad-house, and probably after killing some quite innocent person. By-the-way, they will ask you how you came to suspect. Where is that letter?"
Edwards took it from his pocket.
"Tear it up."
He did so; but Brand took the fragments and put them in his own pocket.
"You can tell them he wrote to you, and from the madness of the letter you thought something was wrong. You destroyed the letter. But where is Natalie's portrait?—that must not fall into their hands."