"Oh no, I could not think of troubling you," I replied warmly, and in due course I was sipping a glass of excellent old port and crumbling a macaroon. This seemed to me the best time for putting out a feeler, and I remarked lightly, pointing to the photograph on the mantelpiece, "I did not see that gentleman here to-night." Instantly a portentous expression gathered upon all the faces. I saw I had said the wrong thing. The beautiful Fanny's mouth quivered, her eyes grew wistful and pathetic. "My father is dead," she said in a low tone. Dead? Her father? A great shock of horror and surprise traversed my frame. His secret had gone with him to the grave. "Dead?" I repeated involuntarily. "Oh, forgive me, I did not know." "Of course not, of course not. I understand perfectly," put in her brother soothingly. "You did not know whom it was we had lost. Yes, it was our father." "Has he been dead long?" He seemed a little surprised at the question, but answered: "It is he we are mourning now." I nodded my head, as if comprehending. "Ah, he was a good man," said Martin. "I wish we were all so sure of Heaven." "There are very few Jews like him left," said Fanny quietly. "Alas, he was one of the pious old school," assented Martin, shaking his head dolefully. My heart was thumping violently as a great wave of light flooded my brain. These people then were Jews--that strange, scattered race of heretics I had often heard of, but never before come into contact with in my wild adventurous existence. The strange scene I had witnessed was not, then, a meeting of conspirators, but a religious funereal ceremonial; the sorrow of Fanny was filial grief; the address of the venerable old man a Hebrew prayer-reading; the short speech of Philip Radowski probably a psalm in the ancient language all spoke so fluently. But what had I come to do in that galley? All these thoughts flashed upon me in the twinkling of an eye. There was scarce a pause between Martin's observation and Radowski's remark that followed it. "He was, indeed, pious. It was wonderful how he withstood the influence of his English friends. You would never imagine he left Poland quite thirty years ago." So I had found the Pole! But was it too late? Anyhow I resolved to know what _I_ had been summoned for? The saints spared me the trouble of the search. "Yes," returned Martin, "when you think how ready he was to go to the houses of mourners, I think it perfectly disgraceful that we had such difficulty in getting together ten brother-Jews for the services in his memory. But for the kindness of Mr. Mendoza I don't know what we should have done to-night. In your place, Philip, I confess I should have felt tempted to violate the law altogether. I can't see that it matters to the Almighty whether you have nine men or ten men or five men. And I don't see why Fanny couldn't count in quite as well as any man."