will be able to judge for yourself if he is worth staying for."
"Hollo!" I cried. "There is a friend of mine. What on earth is he doing here?"
Out of the centre of the parting crowd there appeared in front of us Nora's father. He appeared to be alone. I cast as searching a glance as possible towards the part of the room from which he had come. But, so far as I could perceive, no other familiar face was with him. I should as soon have expected to see old Groome, "all by himself" at the Apollo Club as, say, at a Fleet Street bar.
I felt that Bensberg's eyes were on me—as if my surprise had communicated itself to him.
"You know him then?"
"Know him? Know whom?"
"Goad. That is Goad."
"Goad!"
Bensberg was pointing to old Groome. I supposed that he was poking fun at me; but, to my unutterable amazement, old Groome was calmly ascending the daĭs at the end of the room. And not only ascending the daĭs, but, advancing to the piano, he seated himself at the keyboard. It is no figure of speech to say that I was dumbfounded. Old Groome a pianist! Of a calibre to make his appearance before the hypercritical cognoscenti of the Apollo Club! It was old Groome, there could be no doubt of that. And yet, in his simple-mindedness, I had heard him declare, with my own ears, that he did not know one note of music from another. And I had cordially believed him—he was just that sort of man.
