Reitzei appeared.

“Where will Beratinsky be this evening?”

“At the Culturverein:  he sups there.”

“You and he must be here at ten.  There is business of importance.”

He walked across the room, and took up his hat and stick.  Perhaps at this moment the caution he had been drilling into himself suggested some further word.  He turned to Reitzei, who had advanced to take his place at the desk.

“I mean if that is quite convenient to you both,” he said, courteously.  “Eleven o’clock, if you please, or twelve?”

“Ten will be quite convenient,” Reitzei said.

“The business will not take long.”

“Then we can return to the Culturverein:  it is an exhibition night:  one would not like to be altogether absent.”

These sombre musings had consumed some time.  When Lind went out he found it had grown dark; the lamps were lit; the stream of life was flowing westward.  But he seemed in no great hurry.  He chose unfrequented streets; he walked slowly; there was less of the customary spring and jauntiness of his gait.  In about half an hour he had reached the door of Madame Potecki’s house.

He stood for some seconds there without ringing.  Then, as some one approached, he seemed waken out of a trance.  He rung sharply, and the summons was almost immediately answered.

Madame Potecki was at home, he learned, but she was dining.

“Never mind,” said he, abruptly:  “she will see me.  Go and ask her.”

A couple of minutes thereafter he was shown into a small parlor, where Madame Potecki had just risen to receive him; and by this time a singular change had come over his manner.

“I beg your pardon—­I beg a thousand pardons, my dear Madame Potecki,” said he, in the kindest way, “for having interrupted you.  Pray continue.  I shall make sure you forgive me only if you continue.  Ah, that is well.  Now I will take a chair also.”

Madame Potecki had again seated herself, certainly; but she was far too much agitated by this unexpected visit to be able to go on with her repast.  She was alarmed about Natalie.

“You are surprised, no doubt, at my coming to see you,” said he, cheerfully and carelessly, “so soon after you were kind enough to call on me.  But it is only about a trifle; I assure you, my dear Madame Potecki, it is only about a trifle, and I must therefore insist on your not allowing your dinner to get cold.”

“But if it is about Natalie—­”

“My dear madame, Natalie is very well.  There is nothing to alarm you.  Now you will go on with your dinner, and I will go on with my talking.”

Thus constrained, madame again addressed herself to the small banquet spread before her, which consisted of a couple of sausages, some pickled endive, a piece of Camembert cheese, and a tiny bottle of Erlauer.  Mr. Lind turned his chair to the fire, put his feet on the fender, and lay back.  He was rather smartly dressed this evening, and he was pleasant in manner.