Herr Kreutzer was a mystery to his companions in the little London
orchestra in which he played, and he kept his daughter, Anna, in such
severe seclusion that they little more than knew that she existed and
was beautiful. Not far from Soho Square, they lived, in that sort of
British lodgings in which room-rental carries with it the privilege of
using one hole in the basement-kitchen range on which to cook food
thrice a day. To the people of the lodging-house the two were nearly
as complete a mystery as to the people of the orchestra.

"Hi sye," the landlady confided to the slavey, M'riar, "that Dutch
toff in the hattic, 'e's somethink in disguise!"

"My hye," exclaimed the slavey, who adored Herr Kreutzer and intensely
worshiped Anna. She jumped back dramatically. "_Not bombs!_"

The neighborhood was used to linking thoughts of bombs with thoughts
of foreigners whose hair hung low upon their shoulders as, beyond a
doubt, Herr Kreutzer's did, so M'riar's guess was not absurd. England
offers refuge to the nightmares of all Europe's political indigestion.
Soho offers most of them their lodgings. For years M'riar had been
vainly waiting, with delicious fear, for that terrific moment when she
should discover a loaded bit of gas-pipe in some bed as she yanked off
the covers. Now real drama seemed, at last, to be coming into her dull
life. Somethink in disguise--Miss Anna's father! She hoped it was
_not_ bombs, for bombs _might_ mean trouble for him. She resolved that
should she see a bobby trying to get up into the attic she would pour
a kettleful of boiling water on him.

The landlady relieved her, somewhat, by her comment of next moment.