floors, but the rain had driven every one from the streets.

We came to a long, low, stone building that used to be a theater, but
was now a dance-hall upstairs and a warehouse below. There were lights
upstairs and sounds of music. The stairway was dark, but we felt our
way up and on tiptoe advanced to the big double door, from under which
the light streamed.

We had received our orders, and when we got to the landing we stood
there just an instant. “Now we have him—Gian the hypocrite!” whispered
the stout man in a hoarse breath. We burst in the doors with a whoop
and a bang. The change from the dark to the light sort of blinded us
at first. We all supposed that there was a dance in progress of
course, and the screams from women were just what we expected; but
when we saw several overturned easels and an old man, half-nude, and
too scared to move, seated on a model throne, we did not advance into
the hall as we intended. That one yell we gave was all the noise we
made. We stood there in a bunch, just inside the door, sort of dazed
and uncertain. We did not know whether to retreat, or charge on
through the hall as we had intended. We just stood there like a lot of
driveling fools.

“Keep right at your work, my good people. Keep right at your work!”
called a pleasant voice. “I see we have some visitors.”

And Gian Bellini came forward. His robe was still tucked up under the
blue sash, but he had laid aside his black cap, and his tumbled gray
hair looked like the aureole of a saint. “Keep right at your work,” he
said again, and then came forward and bade us welcome and begged us to
have seats.