The next morning, having finished his work, and obtained the necessary leave from his editor, Paul went up to London by the express train. It was noon when he arrived at Victoria, and he had luncheon in a Strand restaurant before calling on Catinka. Here Fate served him well, for she brought him into contact with a rising musician, who might be supposed to know all that there was to be known about the Polish violinist. Signor Baldini was a young man of Italian blood on the maternal side, and he had taken the maiden name of his mother, as more likely to look well on music paper. He had written one or two songs which had been more or less successful, and now he contemplated composing the music of a comic opera, which was--in his own estimation--to place him on a level with Sir Arthur Sullivan. Paul was hailed cheerily by this individual, and they were soon in confidential discourse. After a chat about the comic opera, and people to whom they were both known, Paul ventured to ask his companion concerning Catinka. At this question Signor Baldini shrugged his shoulders. "I have not seen her lately," he said, candidly. "She does not play so frequently as she once did. You see her name rarely on the St. James's Hall programmes now." "Have the public got tired of her, then?" "Not that I know of. I rather fancy it is she who has grown tired of the public. The fact is, Mexton, that charming young lady has a bee in her bonnet." "What sort of a bee?" "A political bee, that is intended to sting the Autocrat of all the Russias. Catinka is a Pole, you know, and of late she has been mixed up in politics of the Socialistic sort. I never take up a paper without expecting to see her name figuring as the heroine who has thrown a bomb at the Czar." "Is she known to be a Socialist?" "Well, it isn't in the papers, you know; but it is pretty generally talked about. Catinka has a kind of society, of which she is the leader." "The Rainbow Feather Society?" "Yes. I see you have heard of it, even in your native wilds. Did you ever hear so absurd a name, or imagined so ridiculous a symbol? A feather plucked from a goose and dyed in bars of red, blue, yellow, and green. Symbolical, no doubt, but no one outside the society knows the meanings thereof." "Who belongs to this association?" "Long-haired Poles and Russian exiles, and all that sort," replied the signor in a tone of disgust; "the most respectable member is a fellow called Darcy Herne." "Do you know him?" "Yes. I met him once at a musical party given by the lady. At least, it was called so," said Baldini, correcting himself; "but I daresay it was a gathering of conspirators. This Herne was there, and seemed a cracked kind of creature, full of whims. Believes in equality, and looking after the oppressed, and all that sort of rubbish. Religious, too, and has the Bible at his finger ends. Do you know him?" asked the musician in his turn. "I do. He is the Squire of Barnstead, near which village I live."