g 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 glassy 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 c