Carlos, at the end of the time named, proceeded as Mr. Mishler had directed, and the two were soon riding up Broadway, amid the crowd and bustle of that ever busy street.
But little was said by either gentleman. Mr. Mishler was habitually a silent man; he was thoroughly devoted to business, and seldom spoke unless he had something to say, and then his words were few and his sentences compact. He was a German, but his English pronunciation would not have betrayed the fact. Carlos had already told his story to Mr. Duncan, who in turn had imparted it to Mr. Mishler; so there was little occasion for conversation.
After a lengthy drive up Broadway, the carriage turned on a cross street, and in a short time drew up before a brown-stone front which had nothing to distinguish it from its neighbors except the number over the door.
“Some German friends of mine live here,” said Mr. Mishler. “They let rooms to single gentlemen. A musician named Werner, who has just arrived in this country, occupies an apartment in the third story. I will put you in his charge. He is trustworthy.”
“And what about the other occupants?”
“It is none of their business; but they will think you have come to see about taking piano-lessons of Mr. Werner.”
“Yes, that will do, for I am something of a musician myself.”
A servant admitted them in answer to a ring at the door-bell.
Mr. Mishler led the way to Mr. Werner’s room, and in a moment they were in the presence of the musician. He was about the same age as Carlos, and was tall, slim, and straight as an arrow. He had delicate though manly features, a pale complexion, and deep eyes, which bespoke an intense and romantic nature.
Mr. Mishler addressed him rapidly in German for a few moments, explaining briefly that Carlos had reasons for wishing to be unknown for a few days, and requesting Mr. Wernerto give him the shelter of his room for a short time.