“You mean, if a woman steps up to you in a crowded city street and asks you to hold her baby a moment, and never comes back for her baby?”

“I’ll tell you everything some other time.”

The train with its long, elegantly built coaches began to move slowly, though no signal of any sort had been given, no whistle or bell or word of command.  Without the least to-do, it slipped out of the station wholly disregarded.  Peter and Frederick were the only persons taking leave of one another in this crowded train bound inland.  Peter mounted the steps, and again shook hands with Frederick.

“I hope to see you soon again,” each said to the other warmly.

X

When Frederick returned home, he learned that a number of reporters and other persons had been there inquiring for him.  Webster and Forster’s agent had given his address, Frederick deduced upon seeing among the reporters’ cards one of Arthur Stoss’s.  There was also a letter from an impresario, a German of the name of Lehmann, who, failing to find Frederick in, had left a pencilled note asking whether, and under what conditions, Frederick would be prepared to deliver a medical lecture in New York, Boston, Chicago, and later other cities, in which lecture he was each time to touch upon the sinking of the Roland and weave in some of his impressions of the event.

“What else?” thought Frederick, disgusted, though he had to admit that he had actually become famous.

Through Petronilla he sent word to Ingigerd to ask whether it would be agreeable to her to receive him.  Petronilla returned with the message that Ingigerd would see him in a quarter of an hour.  “Signor Pittore Franck is with her,” the housekeeper added; which piece of information sent the blood rushing to Frederick’s head; and though it had been his intention to wash and change his clothes, he scarcely waited for Petronilla to conclude her message, and dashed up-stairs three steps at a time.  He knocked on Ingigerd’s door loudly.  No one said “Come in.”  Nevertheless he opened the door and entered and saw the gypsy painter sitting at Ingigerd’s side.  On the table under the electric bulbs, lay a large sheet of paper, on which Franck was sketching with a soft pencil what Frederick on stepping nearer saw to be hasty designs for costumes.

“I said in a quarter of an hour,” said Ingigerd slowly, making a wry face.

“I’ll come whenever I choose to,” said Frederick.

Franck, rising without the least air of haste or confusion, greeted Frederick with perfect cordiality and walked to the door.

“I don’t want to disturb you.  Good evening, Doctor von Kammacher,” he said with a grin betraying some delight in Frederick’s annoyance.

“Rigo!” Ingigerd called after him.  “You promised to come again to-morrow morning.”

“What’s that boy doing in your room, Ingigerd?” Frederick demanded somewhat roughly, in evident anger.  “And ‘Rigo’?  What does ‘Rigo’ mean?  Are both of you out of your wits?”