ssful or unsuccessful in
realising his paltry span of terrestrial paradise, whether the paeans he
sings about it are prophetic dithyrambs or misleading myths, no
Christian man need fear for his own immortality. That is well assured.
In some form he will surely be raised from the dead. In some shape he
will live again. But, _Cui bono_?"

CHAPTER X.

FORCE--A REMEDY.

"Get me out of this, I am stifled--ill," Miss Metford said, in a low
voice to me.

As we were hurrying from the room, Brande and his sister, who had joined
him, met us. The fire had died out of his eyes. His voice had returned
to its ordinary key. His demeanour was imperturbable, sphinx-like. I
murmured some words about the eloquence of the lecture, but interrupted
myself when I observed his complete indifference to my remarks, and
said,

"Neither praise nor blame seems to affect you, Brande."

"Certainly not," he answered calmly. "You forget that there is nothing
deserving of either praise or blame."

I knew I could not argue with him, so we passed on. Outside, I offered
to find a cab for Miss Metford, and to my surprise she allowed me to do
so. Her self-assertive manner was visibly modified. She made no pretence
of resenting this slight attention, as was usual with her in similar
cases. Indeed, she asked me to accompany her as far as our ways lay
together. But I felt that my society at the time could hardly prove
enlivening. I excused myself by saying candidly that I wished to be
alone.

My own company soon became unendurable. In despair I turned into a music
hall. The contrast between my mental excitement and the inanities of the
stage was too acute, so this resource speedily failed me. Then I betook
myself to the streets again. Here I remembered a letter Brande had put
into my hand as I left the hall. It was short, and the tone was even
more peremptory than his usual arrogance. It directed me to meet the
members of the Society at Charing Cross station at two o'clock on the
following day. No information was given, save that we were all going on
a long journey; that I must set my affairs in such order that my absence
would not cause any trouble, and the letter ended, "Our experiments are
now complete. Our plans are matured. Do not fail to attend."

"Fail to attend!" I muttered. "If I am not the most abject coward on the
earth I will attend--with every available policeman in London." The
pent-up wrath and impotence of many days found voi