hat threw but the scantiest orange light into the vague
shadows of the place; and in front of her were the open windows of what
was apparently a wine-shop. She did not stay to reflect. Perhaps with
some little tightening of the mouth--unknown to herself--she walked
forward and entered the vaults.

Here, again, no one was visible; there were rows of tuns, certainly, and
a musty odor in the place, but no sign of any trade or business being
carried on. Suddenly out of the darkness appeared a figure--so suddenly
indeed as to startle her. Had this man been seen in ordinary daylight,
he would no doubt have looked nothing worse than a familiar type of the
fat black-a-vised Italian--not a very comely person, it is true, but not
in any way horrible--but now these dusky shadows lent something
ghoulish-looking to his bushy head and greasy face and sparkling black
eyes.

"What is the pleasure of the young lady?" he said, curtly.

Natalie had been startled.

"I wished to inquire--I wished to mention," she stammered, "one
Bartolotti."

But at the same time she was conscious of a strange sinking of the
heart. Was this the sort of creature who was expected to save the life
of her lover?--this the sort of man to pit against Ferdinand Lind? Poor
old Calabressa--she thought he meant well, but he boasted, he was
foolish.

This heavy-faced and heavy-bodied man in the dusk did not reply at once.
He turned aside, saying,

"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