SPARKLING sunshine and a clear blue sky reminding him poignantly of the glory of the Indian Summer of his own land, greeted Morton upon his arrival at the neat and attractive terminal of Kronstadt—his present goal and the town that was to be his Rubicon. Kronstadt once behind him, and he on his way south, his adventure would have begun. He thought of Khartoum, recalling an earlier experience when this furthest bulwark of civilization had been his last outfitting station before going into the unknown regions of Africa, and experienced a similar sensation now that he had felt then— Was it a good omen?

The questions and doubts which had beset him so frequently during the tedious and solitary railway journey across Italy, Austria and Hungary again assailed him. He tried to put them out of his mind. There would be no turning back for him. The prudent caution of the Mortons died hard, but the Randolphs won out in the end. Of course, he was a fool, but it was good to be a fool among so many wise ones of the earth—good to be this kind of a fool.

Deeply occupied as he was with these and other thoughts—thoughts of the instructions Count Rondell had given him—he was yet sufficiently diverted by the glorious day, the novel and stimulating sights, to enjoy the short ride from the station to the St. Aloysius Rectory. He admired the well-paved beautiful avenue leading from the railway station to the town nestling among the green and brown hills, which stood out clearly against the ultramarine background of bold mountains.

Equally attractive was the town itself with its quaint and quiet square, its clean gravel walks and the groups of religious statuary guarded by massive chains hanging from moss-covered stone pillars.

The red-faced cabby, who looked like a character in a musical comedy, stopped his vehicle before a narrow, red brick building somewhat retired from the square, flanked by the gray walls of a nondescript church. He pointed with his whip-handle to the small stone-faced door above which was a tarnished cross and grunted something that John could not for the life of him make out. Above the door, in a circular panel, he made out the words, “St. Aloysius.” This was the place, no doubt. Dismissing the cabby, he walked up to the door and gave a vigorous pull at the bell-handle. After waiting a few minutes, he heard steps along the corridor within and the grating in the door slowly opened revealing the wizened features of an old woman who peered inquiringly out at him. He spoke to her in German and inquired after Herr Reverend Moskar. The little woman, after a prolonged and careful examination of Morton, evidently found him satisfactory, for she opened the door and begged him to enter.

He was ushered into a darkened sitting room and had scarcely time to look around him, when a door communicating mysteriously with the interior of the house was opened and there entered a heavily built, stout man in cassock and mitred cap. The features were grave and imposing; but when Morton gave his name, he was pleased to notice the face relax and glad to grasp the fleshy palm extended to him in welcome.

“You are most welcome, Herr Morton, as any friend of the noble Count Arnim is. I have already seen your servant, Mr. McCormick, and received the letter you sent by him.” Had the gracious gentleman, however, brought any letters from his noble patron the Count, the priest humbly asked.

John handed him a letter from Rondell and showed the ring. Immediately the priest’s attitude took on an even more friendly and courteous manner.

“If you are not too tired after your lengthy journey, perhaps you will come upstairs where we can be more comfortable and private.”

Morton bowed. The priest led the way back to the foyer and whispered a few words to the old woman who was standing near the door with her withered hands complacently folded. She retired at once.

“Pardon me,” remarked the priest as they were ascending the creaking stairs, “but our people are inquisitive and somewhat given to gossip.” John smiled his understanding.

Morton was then ushered into a well-lighted room, the sombre walls of which were lined with well-filled book-cases, above which hung a number of paintings of religious subjects. When they were comfortably seated, Father Moskar begged his visitor to speak as frankly as he wished of all that he desired him to know.

From a little closet he brought out a couple of goblets, a bottle of golden wine and filled the two glasses. On the table was a box of cigars which he pushed over to his guest. The ice thus broken, Morton entered on his subject while the old priest listened most attentively, taking in every word said to him. When Morton had concluded, the old man said quickly:

“Herr Morton—I will do everything in my power—but do not tell me your plans. It will be better if I am not in your confidence. Count Arnim has told you that you could rely on me. I am honored; but it will be wiser if I act according to your instructions without being acquainted with your reasons. As I understand, your man, Herr McCormick, is now at the wagoner’s, who is one of my flock. He will be well served there. I am expecting, at any moment, the arrival of another member of my congregation—a certain Papiu Ilarian, who knows well both the mountains of our land and those south of the divide. He speaks German, Roumelian and Bulgarian well; he has been a soldier and knows how to obey; he is also strong, hardy and reliable. After I have talked with Ilarian, you will find him ready to do anything you ask from him. On receipt of the letter your man brought me, I thought it well to attend to a few of the preliminaries. At the wagoner’s you will find horses bred in our own hills and inured to the mountains. The wagoner has ready what you require and you will find he will deal honestly with you. I shall pray for you and the success of your venture. Ach—I hear the voice of Ilarian—pray permit me to see him alone first. Kindly make yourself at home.”

Father Moskar left Morton puffing idly at his cigar. He returned, however, in a few minutes followed by a man of medium height, with broad shoulders, short neck, close-cropped, round head, small, brown eyes deeply set under bushy brows, and a heavy mustache giving the deeply lined and tanned face a rather fierce expression. His large hands with prominent knuckles fingered nervously a well-worn plush cap. His stocky limbs were encased in leather breeches and heavy cowhide boots.

“This, honorable and gracious Herr Morton, is Papiu Ilarian,” remarked the priest. Morton nodded smilingly and a broad grin spread over Papiu’s face as he shyly shuffled and bowed. “I have been speaking to him and he tells me he is ready to start at once. He expects to receive two florins per diem, the customary fee of an Alpine guide, and his term of hire begins now and may end whenever you choose. I have given him information about the character of the work to be performed. You may rely on him. He has a younger brother, Mihai, lately a resident of Roumelia, who can also be hired, if you wish. He vouches for him. Mihai, however, speaks very little German, but he is quick and bold. I have sworn Papiu to obey and follow you. He wishes to shake hands with you to bind the agreement. If you will shake hands with him, Herr Morton—the oath to me will have been transferred to you. I will leave you together now and will return when you call me.”

He bowed gravely and passed through the door silently.

Morton had been scrutinizing the face of the guide while Father Moskar was speaking. Not a muscle of it moved, nor did he stir an inch from his rigid upright posture. The small, intelligent eyes looked at Morton steadily with calm assurance.

Morton rose and offered his hand with a hearty gesture. Papiu seized it in a vice-like grip. Morton felt the man would be as true as steel.

“Papiu, when we get back, I shall pay you liberally, and if we are successful, I shall make you rich!”

“Herr von Moorton—a bargain is a bargain. I am your man and you are my master. Whatever your nobleness orders—Papiu will do.”

Looking boldly into Morton’s face, he continued: “And my brother, he is good with horses, quick with the rifle, has eye like a hawk and knows Roumelia and the people. If I hire him for you, he will swear—and his oath is good. You pay him the same money and give his sweetheart a present when we come back—Mihai will help good.”“Very well, Papiu, tell him he is engaged. And now—let us go and look up the wagoner, where my friend waits for us. Do you know him?”

“I have seen him judging the horses. He looks good and strong and is kind to the beasts. He comes with us, he my friend.”

“Good, Papiu, let’s go then.”

Morton had a very busy time of it during the rest of the forenoon. He found Donald waiting for him and with his and Papiu’s help, they made the necessary purchases and loaded the wagon. The things he had shipped from Italy had been delivered and were also included in the load.

During a frugal meal partaken of in the smithy, Morton arranged that he would start early that very afternoon by the regular train for Bucharest, in his assumed character of prospective investor and buyer of blooded horses. Donald and the two brothers were to leave next morning with the vehicle and the relay horses. They were to join him on Saturday at Padina, where they would make arrangements for relay horses and prepare a safe stopping place a night’s drive beyond Padina on their way to the mountains.

Mihai now came on the scene and was duly introduced. Papiu held some speech with him, looking very serious and impressive. He explained to Morton that the holy father had instructed Mihai and that his brother would like to shake hands with Herr von Morton. Morton accepted the hearty grip of the mountaineer who smiled his gladness.

Mihai proved to be an elongated copy of his elder brother. On being consulted, he suggested the “Bovu Aro” (Golden Calf) Inn as a good rendezvous, a little beyond Padina. Morton congratulated himself on having secured the services of two such fine fellows. He impressed upon them, however, the necessity for avoiding giving cause for suspicion to the natives of the country they were about to travel, and especially to steer clear of any military guards. His own man, Don, would keep out of sight as much as possible, so that a great deal would be left to their discretion. If they were asked their business they were to say that they were but going to market and returning; they would enter Padina from the Northwest, on the road running in from the Aluta Valley. On this road they were to make a careful record of all telegraph stations, villages and houses between their last stop and Padina. He gave them money sufficient to carry them on their way and for any further expenses they might be compelled to incur. The two men said they understood his instructions and would follow them carefully.

The horses were hitched into the shafts of the stout, canvas-covered wagon now all loaded and ready. Don and the two men got in; the wagoner mounted the seat and with a parting good-bye and a crack of the driver’s whip, they lumbered away, leaving Morton alone in the yard. He looked after the wagon and as he saw it disappearing in the distance, he speculated as to what would be the outcome of this enterprise—an enterprise so suddenly put to him and so suddenly entered on. Surely it would end well! Nay, it must end well. Putting all doubts out of his mind, he made his way to Father Moskar’s rectory. He thanked the old priest heartily for his kindness and promised to come back and tell him the result of his undertaking. The old man gave him his blessing in return.

At the depot he found his train waiting. It was made up of a number of baggage cars and but one car for passengers. Finding a comfortable seat, he amused himself in watching the conductor, in resplendent uniform, running alongside the train as he kept blowing energetically through a little horn the signal to the engineer to start. Soon the labored puffing of the locomotive told him that he was at last on his way. It was a wearisome journey, all up-grade, through deep cuts and over widely stretched viaducts; but he was too much occupied with anxious thoughts of the coming days to notice the beauty of the mountain scenery. He felt the pulling power of the engine and realized hazily that they were climbing, climbing, climbing. Suddenly it seemed to him as if the train had been lightened of a load, and looking out he saw that the engine had slowed down and that they had arrived at a little station on a small plateau. A prominent sign-post caught his eye. It was printed red, white and green on one side, and a bright yellow and crimson on the other. They had reached the boundary, the divide, and all around him rose up the great peaks of the Carpathians.

The gorgeous conductor stepped up to the compartment and informed Morton that he would have to change now. On the platform he found a number of gendarmes busily engaged in examining the passengers’ baggage. One of these accosted Morton in foreign-sounding German, and asked him for his valise and passport.

Everything was found to be in order. The gendarme, made happy by the gift of a cigar, ushered Morton into another car on a side-track. A shrill blast and the train moved slowly out. Soon the descent began and the rapid motion roused Morton to his surroundings. It was a truly magnificent sight to behold. White peak on white peak gleamed in the brilliant golden light of the afternoon sun. Then came rounded hills and after these the sharper contours of the Alpine range; and before he had had time to take it all in, the train had entered the rolling meadows and glades of the Great Danubian plain.The splendid panorama had passed and Morton’s interest subsided. He leaned back against the leather upholstery of the compartment once more alone with his thoughts. Occasionally the conductor would look in at the window from the stepping board on the outside of the car and nod pleasantly to him. Morton would return the greeting automatically and resume his meditations. Yes, he was learning, and learning fast. In the desert from which he had but lately stepped out, so to speak, a man was measured by his offensive or defensive value—whether he would protect himself or be a danger to others. In the countries of civilization, he was similarly appraised, although in terms of social standing or money. In this isolated Transylvania, however, into which he had come, he had found a difference. Here was a loyalty founded on faith in human nature and religion. Father Moskar had gently but firmly declined even his offer of a contribution for the poor; while the two rough men had refused more than their just wages for their services. How different were these from those he had known in his past life! Nay, how different even from himself! Why had he undertaken this enterprise? He could not help confessing to himself that his motives were really selfish ones. What lay behind his readiness to rescue the Count’s daughter if not his own desires? Was not even love itself a selfishness—the supremest of all selfishness?

“I have been too long in the desert,” he muttered to himself; “it is high time I came back to civilization. Man was not created to live alone.”

The train crossed a bridge and the noise made by the sound roused him to his whereabouts. He was nearing his destination. The approach to the capital of Roumelia was not marked by the usual signs of a large city’s outlying districts. He missed the factories and the tall chimneys belching forth smoke; he saw no railroad crossings, or culverts, or streets crowded with toilers. Instead, he made out, in the dark and gloom of the fast oncoming evening, gaunt buildings against a leaden sky and sparsely lit thoroughfares. Then, with snortings and puffings, the train entered the ill-smelling and smoky shed of the depot. He was in Bucharest.

Scarcely had he alighted when a villainous looking porter grabbed his valise from him and said some words in a language which was Coptic to Morton. He decided to allow the fellow to have his way and followed him, through the press of outgoing people, to the entrance. Here he found a uniformed individual with a magnificent beard black as coal. Catching the porter by his sleeve, he held him while he asked of the soldierly Swengali, in English, the name of a good hotel. He was evidently understood, for the uniformed person spoke to the porter and in wretched English asked Morton to follow him to the Grand Hotel Metropole. John then noticed that the name of this hotel was embroidered in gold on the man’s cap.

The porter was feed and relieved of his burden, and Morton found himself installed in a hotel bus which was soon rattling noisily over the stones. Arrived at the hotel, he registered as from Cleveland, U. S. A., and was given fairly decent rooms.

His first business, after he had made himself presentable, was to write a short note to Mr. Bronson, the American Consul, to whom he had letters of introduction from Brindisi. He invited him to dine with him that same evening. Morton knew that there was magic in his visiting card and had no doubt that his invitation would be accepted.

This done, he leisurely descended the broad stairway that led to the large and rather garishly decorated foyer there to await the return of his messenger.

He had no sooner stepped into the hall than he was accosted by a tall and lean individual in faultless lounging suit, who addressed him in perfect French by name and presented his card. He was M. Puscariu, Agent of the Department of the Interior—Would Monsieur Morton permit him to ask him a few questions—excusable in the present state of the country? He was sure that Monsieur would have no objection.

Monsieur Morton had none. He held the card before him and read the name slowly and with perfect composure. Trouble was beginning already, he thought. He begged Monsieur Puscariu to proceed.

The sergeant of gendarmes had reported that Monsieur Morton had an American passport and had registered from Cleveland. The passport, however, had been issued at Rome, and within five days it seems. Would Monsieur Morton kindly explain.

John was nonplussed. He looked anxiously around for his messenger and, luckily, spied the boy just entering and moving toward the clerk’s desk. If there was one man on earth more than any other that he wanted for a moment, it was the American Consul. Begging Monsieur Puscariu to excuse him for a moment, he hurried towards the messenger boy and was informed by him that Signor Bronson would be at the hotel without delay.

Greatly relieved, he rejoined Monsieur Puscariu and informed him that the American Consul would arrive presently and explain for him. In the meantime, would not Monsieur join him in a cigarette? Monsieur Puscariu would be delighted. What a bond of fellowship there is in a smoke! It is well called the pipe of peace. Morton and the agent to the Secretary of the Interior, as they sat together on the broad lounge would, to a stranger entering the hotel, have seemed to be life-long friends, so quickly had the cigarette dissipated all feelings of restraint. Surely it is the frailties rather than the virtues that cement human relations! It would, indeed, seem as if it were the touch of weakness which makes the whole world kin. Perhaps, this it was which made Monsieur Puscariu look on the American stranger as a gentleman. Had he, however, entertained any other thoughts there was no time to dwell on them for Mr. Bronson just then entered hurriedly.

Morton rose to meet him and was greeted in return with considerable effusion. When the Consul learned the object of the agent’s presence, he drew the official aside—and told him very impressively who this Mr. Morton was. The change that came over the face of Monsieur Puscariu was amusing. From an official solemnity, it melted almost instantaneously into smiling respect. Here was a man whose very breath was odorous of ready cash. Ah, yes, this was quite a different matter. There was no necessity for any explanations—none whatsoever.

But Morton insisted. He informed the two gentlemen that he was to be in Bucharest but for a few days. He had come to make a preliminary and merely cursory investigation of the status of certain oil concessions. He was desirous to find out how the government would take the investment of foreign capital for developing this natural product of the country. At present, however, he would prefer to engage an attorney of high standing to make these inquiries and report to him. Incidentally, he might seize the occasion of his visit to secure some good stallions and a few brood-mares of the celebrated strain of Carpathian percherons for his farms in Ohio. These were his principal reasons for asking the Consul to call on him.

Monsieur Puscariu and the Consul exchanged quick glances—here was a fine opportunity for both. The Roumelian was now convinced that the quiet young man must be made much of—there was no doubt about that. He was the more firmly convinced after smoking one of Morton’s fine cigars and drinking a glass of Tokay. He knew the very attorney for Monsieur Morton’s business. He would send the gentleman to call if Monsieur Morton desired it. As Monsieur Morton did desire it, Monsieur Puscariu was still more firmly convinced of John’s importance. Assuring Monsieur Morton of his most sincere esteem and promising that the honored visitor to his beloved country would receive every consideration, the agent bowed himself out, leaving John alone with the Consul.

Mr. Bronson, a bright young fellow from one of the South Atlantic states, quickly took occasion by the ear and informed John of his disappointment with the position he occupied in Bucharest. His salary was far from adequate for his office. It was bad enough to be in Bucharest before the political upheaval; but since the revolution,—the place had become absolutely a hell’s hole. There was no money in his job! His fees for the past few weeks wouldn’t buy a square meal.

If John had any scruples, they vanished at hearing Mr. Bronson’s words. He felt himself justified in throwing out hints of the “governor always taking care of his friends,” and spoke of fees and commissions for parties handling the proposition rightly. He indulged in some “tall talk” about petroleum, and asked the Consul’s opinion as to the fitness of the attorney the agent had recommended. The Consul knew him and advised his retention; he was in with the powers that be, and that, just now, was important.

The attorney was sent for and arrived so quickly that Morton concluded Puscariu had not wasted any time. The lawyer proved to be the very man he wanted—shrewd, obsequious and greedy. A fat retainer to this powerful gentleman and he was sure he would neither be disturbed nor watched. From this same individual he obtained the name of a breeder of horses whose stud was an hour’s drive from Padina, in a small town at the foothills of the Arges. He obtained this information, as well as a letter of introduction, on the plea that, as he would be going north for a couple of days’ hunting, he would like to utilize the time looking for horses. He thought he would be back in Bucharest the following Saturday or Sunday, in which event he would advise the Consul and Mr. Attorney.

When the two gentlemen left Morton, they were both richer by many dollars than they had been prior to their visit. They parted from him with still larger hopes of future reward, and anxious to do the rich American every service in their power.

Morton, as he mounted the staircase, congratulated himself on having done a good day’s work—he was convinced he had provided for the removal of many unknown obstacles in his way.

In his room he sat down at the table and wrote the following letters:

The first in German, and written with a stub pen and in a disguised and uneducated hand, on plain paper, was addressed to Sig. Jacobo Rosen, Casa Cornu, Via Colomba, Padina. Rosen was the name of the Jewish merchant recommended by Count Rondell.

Hon. Sig. Rosen:—

Your friend, the good Sig. Nimar, the merchant returning from India, Arabia and Egypt, was taken seriously ill in Italy and could not come in person. He has heard from Constantinople and so as to admit settlement of the business pending between yourselves has requested and empowered me to act for him.

I shall be in your town to-morrow evening intending to purchase horses from the Olata ranch for export. I desire to buy the two famous mares about which Sig. Nimar spoke to me.

Upon my arrival I shall call upon you and ask you to arrange the affairs of your friend so that I can conclude my business at an early date. I have moneys with me and papers.

I shall stop at the “Bovu Oru.”

Most Respectfully,

John R. Morton.

This letter he enclosed in a soiled envelope.

The second letter, written on the hotel’s paper and with a fine pen, was addressed to his father at 210 Euclid Ave., Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A.:

Bucharest, October ——, 189—.

Dear Father:—

I arrived here to-night, and immediately got into touch with the Consul, Mr. J. S. Bronson, and through him with an attorney, Sig. Andra Jonescu, whose card I herewith enclose. He was recommended to me as the best lawyer on affairs of land titles, etc., and looks and acts like a capable business man. He understands English well and you can correspond with him directly. I have paid him his retainer and he will make a preliminary report shortly.

I am going to try to get some good percherons from the “Olata” ranch—our own strain will stand some new blood. If I secure any good animals I will try and ship them while I am here.

Everything appears to me to be quite normal; transfer of titles would be perfectly legal and all acts of the de facto government will stand test, I am told. We should have no difficulty in dealing either with owners of land or the administration.Of course, I shall act with due caution and have some official of high rank confirm this before acting finally.

The government, I am told, would welcome the investment of foreign capital in land and industries and will give both protection and guarantee.

I am well and have enjoyed the trip. I will not remain longer than the business requires. I might get a chance at some good shooting (there is fine game to be had in the mountains and in the Delta), in which case I may prolong my stay a few days. If I don’t get to Paris by November 20th, will cable.

With love to dear mother and Ruth, I am, dear father,

Your loving son,

John.

Putting on his coat and cap, John walked down to the foyer, and having learned from the gloriously arrayed and imposing chief porter the location of the nearest mail box, he leisurely sauntered toward it.

The street was totally deserted, not even a lighted shop window was to be seen. This surprised him. He had been told that Bucharest was known as the “Paris of the East.” It looked like anything but that just now. He surmised the change was owing to the troubled times. As he slipped the letters into the mail box, he had a feeling that he had been followed. Without in the least betraying his suspicions, he paused and lit a cigar and then slowly made his way back to the hotel, smiling quietly. “You are welcome to read both letters—but one of them, I guess, you won’t recognize as mine,” he muttered to himself.

The next morning was spent in making a few necessary purchases. He visited the principal streets, and made it his business to look into the largest stores. He observed that he was being followed wherever he went; but he took no notice and went about his business as if seeing nothing. The town was in that state of suspended animation that betokens an unusually unsettled condition. Shopkeepers seemed surprised to find a patron; the few women he saw were sober and barely let their glances fall on him, though it could be easily seen that Morton was a stranger—he had taken good care to get himself up like the typical English tourist. Few conveyances of any description disturbed the curious quiet that had come over the city, a quiet as if from drowsiness.

Evidently, an ominous cloud was hovering over the place, and Morton felt that he was walking on the thin crust of a lake of molten lava, when any moment his feet might break through. Wherever he went he was certain to meet either a “Guarda Civil” with his fierce mustachios, or an officer with clanking sword and spurs, or a gendarme in his bizarre hat and baggy pantaloons many inches too long for him. But no one said a word to him, nor did he hear any words spoken.

He was not sorry to find that a train would take him to Padina and land him there that evening. Quickly packing a valise and informing the clerk that he would retain his room, he made his way to the railway station and found the train on time.

At the Padina depot, he inquired from a sleepy looking guard after the best hotel, and was glad to have the man point down the street to the very house he had intended to stay at. It was but a short walk and the foggy evening air hid the inhospitable appearance of the place. But it could not hide the miserable condition of the roadway, a trench-like, broad furrow, between low, dingy buildings of box-like structure. It was full of holes and pitfalls, and a pedestrian sank ankle-deep in its mud. John recognized the hotel by its swinging sign—an unnaturally meaty bull painted with garish, coppery bronze—which glittered in the feeble rays of an antiquated oil lamp fastened above it. He set down his bag and with a resigned sigh gave a vigorous pull at the bell-handle.The door was opened by the landlord in person. He looked astounded to see a man with a valise—evidently, guests were not an event of everyday occurrence. But his countenance quickly assumed its professional smile and, with a nod of his unkempt head, he invited Morton in. To Morton’s inquiries, he responded in a curious jargon of German and Roumelian, which Morton understood sufficiently to be satisfied that he would find the accommodation he needed.

Bearing aloft an ill-smelling and smoky tallow candle in a tin receptacle, the landlord led the way up a stairway, the walls of which had been anciently plastered and whitewashed. Arrived at the upper floor, he entered a room and placed the light on a small table and the guest’s bag on a most uninviting looking bed. Then, turning, he gave vent to some more guttural sounds and left Morton alone. The sounds were intended to convey the information that the gentleman’s dinner would be ready in half an hour in the tap-room.

It was with many misgivings that Morton looked about the cell that was to serve as his residence for the next few days. The prospect was by no means a pleasing one. The walls of a dirty white, roughly plastered, showed many cracks and nail-holes, and numerous blotches of soot or smoke where previous visitors had evidently sent up burnt offerings on the altar of a night’s peace from vermin. The bed, piled high with pillows and quilts, assured warmth, but not cleanliness; a rickety washstand with rough bowl and pitcher, both chipped and cracked, two rickety chairs, a small table, and a number of wooden pegs driven into the wall, completed the furnishing. This was the first real shock to John’s fortitude. He had realized that he might have to encounter dangers, but he never thought that he might be nauseated. In his camp in the desert, vermin and insects were a part of the natural order of things, so to speak; but in this “hotel”—faugh!—Morton’s lips twisted themselves into an expression of disgust.

Still, it was an ill wind that did not blow some good. The very primitiveness of the place would protect him from an espionage which might prove to be far more inconvenient than the discomfort. And he was not just now interested in offering suggestions for running model hotels. He was about to make up his mind to risk a descent to the tap-room, for he was very hungry, when a gentle knock sounded on the door. Taking the battered candlestick in one hand and cautiously opening the door, he peered into the dark stair-landing. In the flickering light, the shadow of a man stretching along the deal boards of the hall seemed gigantic. But the feeling aroused by the size was quickly dispelled by the voice which emanated from the person. In a low, whining and apologizing tone, and in a language which was intended for German, the man inquired for the most honorable and respected Signor Moor-ton.

John made himself known. The little man bowed low, removed his hat, and begged permission to introduce himself. He was the unworthy and humble store-keeper Rosen, a purveyor to the wants of travelers whatever their needs or desires might be. Would not his Honor permit him to be the first merchant of the town to offer his services to provide whatever the gentleman wished to purchase in Padina? His stock of goods was the choicest to be had anywhere outside of Bucharest and the prices the lowest.

John was very much taken aback. Was this grotesque and trembling shadow, this ridiculous little figure the man in whom the Count had placed such reliance? Was he to be the mainstay of his enterprise? It surely could not be. And yet he must have come in response to the letter Morton had sent him, the night before. Perhaps the fellow was playing a part of set purpose! Still, it was an untimely hour for a visit.

“Why do you come here? Why did you not wait and see me downstairs? You Jews don’t waste any time, that’s certain. Well, now that you are here, come in and state your business. Be quick about it for I haven’t much time!”

He had spoken roughly, and with a quick turn he walked into the room.