Part 9 (2/2)

Within an hour Mr. Wallace arrived; Diotti told the story of the night. After the undertaker had taken charge of the body he found on the dead man's neck, just to the left of the chin, a dullish, black bruise which might have been caused by the pressing of some blunt instrument, or by a man's thumb. Considering it of much importance, he notified the coroner, who ordered an inquest.

At six o'clock that evening a jury was impaneled, and two hours later its verdict was reported.

XIII

On leaving the house of the dead man Diotti walked wearily to his hotel. In flaring type at every street corner he saw the announcement for Thursday evening, March thirty-first, of Angelo Diotti's last appearance: ”To-night I play for the last time,” he murmured in a voice filled with deepest regret.

The feeling of exultation so common to artists who finally reach the goal of their ambition was wanting in Diotti this morning. He could not rid himself of the memory of Sanders' tragic death. The figure of the old man clutching the violin and staring with gla.s.sy eyes into the dying fire would not away.

When he reached the hotel he tried to rest, but his excited brain banished every thought of slumber. Restlessly he moved about the room, and finally dressing, he left the hotel for his daily call on Mildred.

It was after five o'clock when he arrived. She received him coldly and without any mark of affection.

She had heard of Mr. Sanders' death; her father had sent word. ”It shocked me greatly,” she said; ”but perhaps the old man is happier in a world far from strife and care. When we realize all the misery there is in this world we often wonder why we should care to live.” Her tone was despondent, her face was drawn and blanched, and her eyes gave evidence of weeping.

Diotti divined that something beyond sympathy for old Sanders' sudden death racked her soul. He went toward her and lovingly taking her hands, bent low and pressed his lips to them; they were cold as marble.

”Darling,” he said; ”something has made you unhappy. What is it?”

”Tell me, Angelo, and truly; is your violin like other violins?”

This unexpected question came so suddenly he could not control his agitation.

”Why do you ask?” he said.

”You must answer me directly!”

”No, Mildred; my violin is different from any other I have ever seen,”

this hesitatingly and with great effort at composure.

”In what way is it different?” she almost demanded.

”It is peculiarly constructed; it has an extra string. But why this sudden interest in the violin? Let us talk of you, of me, of both, of our future,” said he with enforced cheerfulness.

”No, we will talk of the violin. Of what use is the extra string?”

”None whatever,” was the quick reply.

”Then why not cut it off?”

”No, no, Mildred; you do not understand,” he cried; ”I can not do that.”

”You can not do it when I ask it?” she exclaimed.

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