"We promised to write to each other."
"We were very young," Brand chuckled. "So you went soldiering, I to
my trade."
"Each to his tribe, and God for all," said Sydney. "I used to envy
you."
"I wanted to be a soldier," answered Brand.
"But, Sydney, why all this secrecy; why put your card in a sealed
envelope?"
The soldier's face turned grave. "I have good reason. These walls,"
he looked anxiously about him, "have they ears?"
"Sydney, this isn't London."
"May I look round?"
Brand laughed, but his visitor walked to the door and opened it
suddenly, making a rapid survey of the ante-room. Other doors he
examined which led to the safe, and to Brand's private chambers; then
considering the walls and hangings, returned to his place.
"I should have been followed from London," he explained, "but I hired
an actor to personate me, and he is leading a fine chase of spies to
Stamboul."
"Who has you watched?"
"My father, and when he knows I've been here you'll catch the
infection. I warn you, Brand."
"My dear fellow, your father----"
The Guardsman's eyes flashed ominously, his jaws hardened.
"What do you know of my father?"
"Chancellor of the Empire, his Grace the Duke of Ulster, K.G., and a
lot more twaddle."
"By the Almanac, yes, and head of the Gold Party which sits up to
hate you all night. Come, speak out!"
"My dear fellow, I never met your father. In politics I like
fighting him, and I think he likes fighting me. He would never speak
evil of me as a private man."
"Or you of Ulster? Well, I can't blame your courtesy, Brand, I don't
understand your politics. They say that you finance the Labour
Party. You've been accused of Socialism."