“Excuse me, signorina, it is dark here; they have neglected to light the lamps as yet.”

Then, with much composure, he got a lamp, struck a match, and lit it.  The light was not great, but he placed it deliberately so that it shone on Natalie, and then he calmly investigated her appearance.

“Yes, signorina, you mentioned one Bartolotti,” he remarked, in a more respectful tone.

Natalie hesitated.  According to Calabressa’s account, the mere mention of the name was to act as a talisman which would work wonders for her.  This obese person merely stood there, awaiting what she should say.

“Perhaps,” she said, in great embarrassment, “you know one Calabressa?”

“Ah, Calabressa!” he said, and the dull face lighted up with a little more intelligence.  “Yes, of course, one knows Calabressa.”

“He is a friend of mine,” she said.  “Perhaps, if I could see him, he would explain to you—­”

“But Calabressa is not here; he is not even in this country, perhaps.”

Then silence.  A sort of terror seized her.  Was this the end of all her hopes?  Was she to go away thus?  Then came a sudden cry, wrung from her despair.

“Oh, sir, you must tell me if there is no one who can help me!  I have come to save one who is in trouble, in danger.  Calabressa said to me, ’Go to Naples; go to such and such a place; the mere word Bartolotti will give you powerful friends; count on them; they will not fail one who belongs to the Berezolyis.’  And now—­”

“Your pardon, signorina:  have the complaisance to repeat the name.”

“Berezolyi,” she answered, quickly; “he said it would be known.”

“I for my part do not know it; but that is of no consequence,” said the man.  “I begin to perceive what it is that you demand.  It is serious.  I hope my friend Calabressa is justified.  I have but to do my duty.”

Then he glanced at the young lady—­or, rather, at her costume.

“The assistance you demand for some one, signorina:  is it a sum of money—­is it a reasonable, ordinary sum of money that would be in the question, perhaps?”

“Oh no, signore; not at all!”

“Very well.  Then have the kindness to write your name and your address for me:  I will convey your appeal.”

He brought her writing materials; after a moment’s consideration she wrote—­“Natalie Lind, the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi.  Hotel ——.” She handed him the paper.

“A thousand thanks, signorina.  To-day, perhaps to-morrow, you will hear from the friends of Calabressa.  You will be ready to go where they ask you to go?”

“Oh yes, yes, sir!” she exclaimed.  “How can I thank you?”

“It is unnecessary,” he said, taking the lamp to show her the way more clearly.  “I have the honor to wish you good-morning, signorina.”  And again he bowed respectfully.  “Your most humble servant, signorina.”

She returned to the hotel, and found that her mother had gone up-stairs to her own room.