what makes you think she might be young?”
“I have a sort of impression that she might be. I haven’t succeeded in placing her in this house yet . . . Do you think he’ll marry again, Marshall?”
“Judging by the way he avoided women on board I should say not.”
Mrs. Moor glanced at her wrist-watch.
“It’s getting on toward half-past, and we’ve two more floors to see yet. We mustn’t stand about.”
They returned to the hall, and immediately began the ascent of the main staircase. So far they had neither seen nor heard anything of the American visitor; everything in the house remained as still as death. Mrs. Priday, too, was a long time in putting in an appearance . . . The landing, which constituted a part of the hall, was lighted by its windows; the golden sunlight, the black shadows cast by the balustrade, the patches of deep blue and crimson, produced a weird and solemn phantasmagoria of colour. All the air smelt of eld. They stopped for a minute at the top of the stairs, looking down over the rail of the gallery into the hall.
Mrs. Moor was the first to get to business again. She took a rapid survey of their situation. On the left, the gallery came to a stop at the outer wall of the hall. Two doors faced them; one opposite the head of the stairs, the other, which was ajar, further along to the left. On the right, beyond the foot of a second flight of stairs leading upwards, the landing extended forward as a long, dark corridor having rooms on both sides. The obscurity, and a sharp turn, prevented the end from being seen.
Isbel called attention to a plaster nymph, standing in an alcove.
“Mrs. Judge must have put that there,” she said, rubbing her forehead; “and I am sure she was little more than a girl.”
Her aunt regarded her askance. “What do you know about it?”
“I have a feeling. We’ll ask Mrs. Priday when she comes. I think Mr. Judge is a very susceptible elderly gentleman with a penchant for young women. Remember my words.”
“At least you might have the decency to recollect that you’re in his house.”
The words were hardly out of Mrs. Moor’s mouth when they were startled by a strange sound. It came from the open door on their left, and was exactly like a single chord struck heavily on the piano. They looked at one another.
“Our Transatlantic friend,” suggested Marshall.
Mrs. Moor frowned. “It’s singular he didn’t hear us come in.”
Another chord sounded, and then two or three more in quick succession.
“He’s going to play,” said Isbel.
“Shall I go and investigate?” asked Marshall; but Mrs. Moor held up her hand.
The music had commenced.
The ladies, who possessed a wide experience of orchestral concerts, immediately recognised the Introduction to the opening movement of Beethoven’s A major Symphony. It did not take long to realise, however, that the American — if it were the American — was not so much attempting to render this fragment from giant-land, as experimenting with it. his touch was heavy and positive, but he picked out the notes so tardily, he took such liberties with the tempo, there were such long silences, that the impression given was that he must be reflecting profoundly upon what he played . . .
Mrs. Moor looked puzzled, but Isbel, after her first shock of surprise, grew interested. She had an intuitive feeling that the unseen performer was not playing for the pleasure of the music, but for some other reason; but what this other reason could be, she could not conceive . . . Could it be that he was a professional musician, who was taking advantage of the presence of a grand piano to go over something in the work which was not quite clear in his mind? Or was the performance suggested by the house?
She knew the composition well, but had never heard it played like that before. The disturbing excitement of its preparations, as if a curtain were about to be drawn up, revealing a new marvellous world . . . It was wonderful . . . most beautiful, really . . . Then, after a few minutes came the famous passage of the gigantic ascending scales, and she immediately had a vision of huge stairs going up . . . And, after that, suddenly dead silence. The music had ceased abruptly . . .
She glanced round at her friends. Marshall was lounging over the rail of the gallery, his back to the others; stifling yawn after yawn; her aunt was staring at the half-open door, with an absent frown. The pianist showed no sign of resuming; two minutes passed, and still the deathly silence remained unbroken. Marshall stood erect and grew restive, but her aunt raised her hand for quiet. Isbel silently fingered her hair.
While they still waited, the foor of the room from which the sounds had issued opened to its full extent, and the musician appeared standing on the threshold, tranquilly smoking a newly-lighted cigarette.
Chapter III. In the Upstairs Corridor
The stranger was dressed in a summer suit of grey flannel, and dangled a broad-brimmed Panama hat in his hand. Nothing indicated that he had observed their little group.
Mrs. Moor tapped her heel smartly on the floor. He at once looked round, but with perfect self-possession. He was a shortish, heavily-built man, perhaps fifty years of age, having a full, florid face, a dome-like forehead, and a neck short, thick and red — an energetic, intellectual type of person, probably capable of prolonged periods of heavy mental exertion. His head was bald to the crown, the remaining fair was sandy-red and he wore a short, pointed beard of the same colour. His somewhat large, flat. Pale blue-grey eyes had that peculiar look of fixity which comes from gazing at one set of objects and thinking of something totally different.
“Are you the American gentleman?” interrogated Mrs. Moor, from a distance. He strolled towards them before replying.
“I do belong to the American nation.” His voice was thick, but not unpleasant; it had very little accent.
“They told us you were here, but we were not anticipating a musical treat.”
He laughed politely. “I guess my apology will have to be that I forgot my audience, madam. I heard you all come in, but you disappeared somewhere in the house, and the circumstance went clean out of my mind.”
Mrs. Moor glanced at the bulky note-book stuffed into his side-pocket, and risked a shrewd conjecture.
“Artists, we know, are notoriously absent-minded.”
“Why, I do paint, madam — but I don’t put that forward as an excuse for discourtesy.”
“Then you were lost in the past, we will say. You have few such interesting memorials in your country?”
“We have some; we are putting on years. But I’m interested in this house in a special sense. My wife’s great-grandfather was the former proprietor of it — I don’t know just how you call it here . . . well, the squire.“
Isbel fastened her steady, grey-black eyes on his face. “But why were you playing Beethoven
