"Evelyn, I distrust that man Lind."

The speaker was George Brand, who kept impatiently pacing up and down
those rooms of his, while his friend, with a dreamy look on the pale and
fine face, lay back in an easy-chair, and gazed out of the clear panes
before him. It was night; the blinds had not been drawn; and the row of
windows, framed by their scarlet curtains, seemed a series of dark-blue
pictures, all throbbing with points of golden fire.

"Is there any one you do not distrust?" said Lord Evelyn, absently.

"I hope so. But with regard to Lind: I had distinctly to let him know
he must not assume that I am mixed up in any of his schemes until I
definitely say so. When, in answer to my vague proposal, he told me I
had already pledged myself, I confess I was startled for a moment. Of
course it was all very well for him afterward to speak of my declared
sympathy, and of my promise to reveal nothing, as being quite enough, at
least for the earlier stage. If that is so, you may easily acquire
adherents. But either I join with a definite pledge, or not at all."

"I am inclined to think you had better not join," said Lord Evelyn,
calmly.

After that there was silence; and Brand's companion lay and looked on
the picture outside, that was so dark and solemn and still. In the midst
of all that blaze of various and trembling lights was the unseen
river--unseen but for the myriad reflections that showed the ripples of
the water; then the far-reaching rows of golden stars, spanning the
bridges, and marking out the long Embankment sweep beyond St. Thomas's
Hospital. On the other side black masses of houses--all their