Next day, being warm, I sat on a bench in the shade listening to the music. Now that Baumgarten had gone, I was meditating on his strange resemblance to Johnson, and remembering things. Someone sat down beside me, but I paid no attention to him. Finally he said: "This seems to be a very good band." I started at the sound of his voice, and looked at him too much astonished to reply. He wore a moustache, but no whiskers, and a green Tyrolese felt hat with a feather in it. An alpenstock leaned against the bench beside him, its iron point in the gravel. He wore knickerbockers; in fact, his whole appearance was that of the conventional mountaineer-tourist. But the voice! And the expression of the eyes! "What did you say?" "I said the band is very good." "Oh, yes. Quite so. It's expensive, and it ought to be good. I'm helping to pay for it. By the way, you arrived this morning, I take it?" "I came last night." "Oh, indeed. And you depart in a few days for Innsbruck?" "No, I go to Salzburg when I leave here." "And your name isn't Johnson--or--or Baumgarten, by any chance?" "It is not." "You come neither from Chicago nor Hanover?" "I have never been in America, nor do I know Hanover. Anything else?" "Nothing else. It's all right. It's none of my business, of course." "What is none of your business?" "Who are you." "Oh, there's no secret about that. I am a Russian. My name is Katzoff. At least, these are the first and last syllables of my name. I never use my full name when I travel; it is too complicated." "Thanks. And how do you account for your perfect English? Educated in England, I presume? Baumgarten was." "No, I was not. You know we Russians are reputed to be good linguists." "Yes, I had forgotten that. We will now return to the point from which we started. The band is excellent, and it is about to play one of four favorite selections, Mr. Katzburg." "Katzoff is the name. As to the selection, I don't know much about music, although I am fond of popular pieces." Katzoff and I got along very nicely, although I did not seem to like him as well as either Johnson or Baumgarten. He left for Salzburg without bidding me good-bye. Missing him one day, I called at the Angleterre, and the porter told me he had gone. Next day I searched for him, wondering in what garb I should find him. I passed him twice as he sat on the bench, before I was sure enough to accost him. The sacrifice of his moustache had made a remarkable difference. His clean-shaven face caused him to look at least ten years younger. He wore a tall silk hat, and a long black morning coat. I found myself hardly able to withdraw my eyes from the white spats that partially covered his polished boots. He was reading an English paper, and did not observe my scrutiny. I approached him. "Well, Johnson," I said, "this _is_ a lay out. You're English this time, I suppose?"