ething of what we are doing?"

"Is it necessary?"

"In your case, yes. We want to make you a person of importance."

So at last Molyneux agreed, and they started for London in the evening;
the big, shrew, farmer-looking man being as pleased as a child to have
certain signs and passwords confided to him. Brand made light of these
things--and, in fact, they were only such as were used among the
outsiders; but Molyneux was keenly interested, and already pictured
himself going through Europe and holding this subtle conversation with
all the unknown companions whom chance might throw in his way.

But long ere he reached London the motion of the train had sent him to
sleep; and George Brand had plenty of time to think over that letter,
and to guess at what possible intention might lie under its plausible
phrases. He had leisure to think of other things, too. The question of
money, for example--about which Molyneux had been so curious with regard
to this association--was one on which he himself was but slightly
informed, the treasury department being altogether outside his sphere.
He did not even know whether Lind had private means, or was enabled to
live as he did by the association, for its own ends. He knew that the
Society had numerous paid agents; no doubt, he himself could have
claimed a salary, had it been worth his while. But the truth is that
"dibs" concerned him very little. He had never been extravagant; he had
always lived well within his income; and his chief satisfaction in being
possessed of a liberal fortune lay in the fact that he had not to bother
his head about money. There was one worry the less in life.

But then George Brand had been a good deal about the world, and had seen
something of human life, and knew very well the power the possession of
money gives. Why, this very indifference, this happy carelessness about
pecuniary details, was but the consequence of his having a large fund
in the background that he could draw on at will. If he did not overvalue
his fortune, on the other hand he did not undervalue it; and he was
about the last man in the world who could reasonably have been expected
to part with it.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A TALISMAN.

Natalie Lind was busy writing at the window of the drawing-room in
Curzon Street when Calabressa entered, unannounced. He had outstripped
the little Anneli; perhaps he was afraid of being refused. He was much
excited.

"Forgive me, signorina, if I sta