“I entreat you, Signor Calabressa, not to speak in riddles,” said Natalie, hastily.  “See, here is a telegram from papa.  He will be back in London on Monday next week.  You can stay to see him, can you not?"’

“Mademoiselle, do you not understand that I am not my own master for two moments in succession?  For this present moment I am; the next I may be under orders.  But if my freedom, my holiday, lasts—­yes, I shall be glad to see your father, and I will wait.  In the mean time, I must use up my present moment.  Can you give me the address of Vincent Beratinsky?”

She wrote it down for him; it was a number in Oxford Street.

“Now I will add my excuses to those of the tall Englishman,” said he, rising.  “Good-night, madame.  Good-night, mademoiselle—­truly, it is a folly to call you the little Natalushka, who are taller than your beautiful mother.  But it was the little Natalushka I was thinking about for many a year.  Good-night, wicked little one, with your secrets!”

He kissed her hand, bowed once more to the little Polish lady, and left.

When, after considerable difficulty—­for he was exceedingly near-sighted—­he made out the number in Oxford Street, he found another caller just leaving.  This stranger glanced at him, and instantly said, in a low voice,

“The night is dark, brother.”

Calabressa started; but the other gave one or two signs that reassured him.

“I knew you were in London, signore, and I recognized you; we have your photograph in Lisle Street.  My name is Reitzei—­”

“Ah!” Calabressa exclaimed, with a new interest, as he looked at the pallid-faced young man.

“And if you wish to see Beratinsky, I will take you to him.  I find he is at the Culturverein:  I was going there myself.”  So Calabressa suffered himself to be led away.

At this time the Culturverein used to meet in a large hall in a narrow lane off Oxford Street.  It was an association of persons, mostly Germans, connected in some way or other with art, music, or letters—­a merry-hearted, free-and-easy little band of people, who met every evening to laugh and talk and joke and generally forget the world and all its cares.  The evening usually began with Bavarian beer, sonatas, and comic lectures; then Rhine wines began to appear, and of course these brought with them songs of love, and friendship, and patriotism; occasionally, when the older and wiser folk had gone, sweet champagne and a wild frolic prevailed until daylight came to drive the revellers out.  Beratinsky belonged to the Verein by reason of his having at one time betaken himself to water-color drawing, in order to keep himself alive.

When Calabressa entered the large, long hall, the walls of which were plentifully hung with sketches in color and cartoons in black and white, the fertig!—­los! period had not arrived.  On the contrary, the meeting was exceedingly demure, almost dull; for a German music professor, seated at the piano on the platform, was playing one of his own compositions, which, however beautiful, was of considerable length; and his audience had relapsed into half-hushed conversation over their light cigars and tall glasses of Bairisch.