gly
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.

Beratinsky had to come along to the entrance-hall to enter the names of
his visitors in a book. He was a little man, somewhat corpulent, with
bushy black eyebrows, intensely black eyes, and black closely-cropped
beard. The head was rather handsome; the figure not.

"Ah, Calabressa, you have come alive again!" he said, speaking in pretty
fair Italian. "We heard you were in London. What is it?"

The last phrase was u