"I do. I'll swear to it! I've heard him playing it!"
"Then, possibly, he has attained to greater fame than he imagines."
"But it's unpublished. Uncle, Coursault is upstairs!"
He grasped my arm with a degree of force which was a little disconcerting.
"Nonsense! Your friend would scarcely carry his eccentricity so far as to enter, uninvited and unannounced, the house of a perfect stranger—that is, unless he is burglariously inclined."
"I know his touch. Do you think that anyone but a master could play like that?"
It was fine playing. Very soft and delicate, but instinct with a strength, and a force, and a passion, which was perceptible even at our post of disadvantage at the foot of the stairs. A street musician would scarcely play like that—and a parlour-maid!
"It is one of his freaks. He has heard that I was here, and thought he would surprise me. The presence of the violin upon the table was a temptation beyond his strength—it is the man all over! Uncle, let's turn the tables—we'll surprise him!"
He, began gingerly to ascend the stairs. I followed a step or two behind. About half-way up he stopped.
"I call that playing!"
So did I. As we mounted higher the sound was clearer. The voice of the violin was sweeter than any human voice I ever heard. Unwilling
