of the Marienkirche--a cathedral built of red brick in the great
days of the Hanseatic League.

"Who is it?" asked a stout fishwife, stepping over the threshold to
whisper to Peter Koch.

"It is the younger daughter of Antoine Sebastian," replied the
verger, indicating with a nod of his head the house on the left-hand
side of the Frauengasse where Sebastian lived. There was a wealth
of meaning in the nod. For Peter Koch lived round the corner in the
Kleine Schmiedegasse, and of course--well, it is only neighbourly to
take an interest in those who drink milk from the same cow and buy
wood from the same Jew.

The fishwife looked thoughtfully down the Frauengasse where every
house has a different gable, and none of less than three floors
within the pitch of the roof. She singled out No. 36, which has a
carved stone balustrade to its broad verandah and a railing of
wrought-iron on either side of the steps descending from the
verandah to the street.

"They teach dancing?" she inquired.

And Koch nodded again, taking snuff.

"And he--the father?"

"He scrapes a fiddle," replied the verger, examining the lady's
basket of fish in a non-committing and final way. For a locksmith
is almost as confidential an adviser as a notary. The Dantzigers,