I arrived safely in Berlin at half-past seven in the evening, and drove to a modest hotel in the Kaiserstrasse, where I had engaged a room.  My first inquiry was for a letter from Lola.  To my disappointment nothing awaited me.  I had telegraphed to her at the Winter Garten the day before, and I had written as well.  A horrible surmise began to dance before me.  Suppose Messrs. Conto and Blag had given Dale erroneous information!  I grew sick and faint at the thought.  What laughter there would be in Olympus over my fool journey!  In great agitation I clamoured for a programme of the Winter Garten entertainment.  The hotel clerk put it into my trembling hands.  There was no mention of Madame Lola Brandt, but to my unspeakable comfort I saw the announcement: 

“Professorin Anastasius Papadopoulos und ihre wunderbaren Katzen.”

Lola was working the cats under the little man’s name.  That was why she had baffled the inquiries instituted by Dale and myself and had not received my telegram.  I scribbled a hasty note in which I told her of my arrival, my love, and my impatience; that I proposed to witness the performance that evening, and to meet her immediately afterwards at the stage-door.  This, addressed to the Professorin Anastasius Papadopoulos, I despatched by special messenger to the Winter Garten.  After a hasty toilet and a more hurried meal, I went out, and, too impatient to walk, I hailed a droschky, and drove through the wide, cheery streets of Berlin.  It was a balmy June evening.  The pavements were thronged.  Through the vast open fronts of the cafes one saw agglutinated masses of people just cleft here and there by white-jacketed waiters darting to and fro with high-poised trays of beer and coffee.  Save these and the folks in theatres all Berlin was in the streets, taking the air.  A sense of gaiety pervaded the place, organised and recognised, as though it were as much part of a Berliner’s duty to himself, the Fatherland, and the Almighty to be gay when the labours of the day are over as to be serious during business hours.  He goes through it with a grave face and enjoys himself prodigiously.  Your Latin when he fills the street with jest and laughter obeys the ebullience of his temperament; your Teuton always seems to be conscientiously obeying a book of regulations.

I soon arrived at the Winter Garten and secured a stall near the stage.  The vast building was packed with a smoking and perspiring multitude.  In shape it was like a long tunnel or a long, narrow railway station, an impression intensified by a monotonous barrel roof.  This was, however, painted blue and decorated with myriads of golden stars.  Along one side ran a gallery where those who liked to watch the performance and eat a six-course dinner at the same time could do so in elaborate comfort.  In the centre of the opposite side was the stage, and below it, grouped in a semi-circle, the orchestra.  Beneath the starry roof hung long wisps of smoke clouds.