blackness of the cab's interior gingerly stepped Musa, holding
a violin case in his hand.

"Mrs. Spatt," said Nick. "Let me introduce Mr. Musa. Mr. Musa is perhaps
the greatest violinist in Paris--or in Europe. Very old friend of ours. He
came over to London unexpectedly just as I was starting for Liverpool
Street station this afternoon. So I did the only thing I could do. I
couldn't leave him there--I brought him along, and we want Mr. Spatt to
recommend us an hotel in Frinton for him." And while Musa was shyly in his
imperfect English greeting Mr. and Mrs. Spatt, she whispered to Audrey:
"You don't know. You'd never guess. A big concert agent in Paris has taken
him up at last. He's going to play at a lot of concerts, and they actually
paid him two thousand five hundred francs in advance. Isn't it a perfect
dream?"

Audrey, who had seen Musa's trustful glance at Nick as he descended from
the cab, was suddenly aware of a fierce pang of hate for the benignant
Nick, and a wave of fury against Musa. The thing was very disconcerting.

After self-conscious greetings, Musa almost dragged Audrey away from the
others.

"It's you I came to London to see," he muttered in an unusual voice.

CHAPTER XXV

THE MUTE

It was upon this evening that Audrey began alarmingly to develop the
quality of being incomprehensible--even to herself. Like most young women
and men, she had been convinced from an early age that she was mysteriously
unlike all other created beings, and--again like most young men and
women--she could find, in the secrecy of her own heart, plenty of proof of
a unique strangeness. But now her unreason became formidable. There she sat
with her striking forehead and her quite unimportant nose, in the large
austere drawing-room of the Spatts, which was so pervaded by artistic
chintz that the slightest movement in it produced a crackle--and wondered
why she was so much queerer than other girls could possibly be.

Neither the crackling of chintz nor the aspect of the faces in the
drawing-room was conducive to clear psychological analysis. Mr. Ziegler,
with a glass of Pilsener by his side on a small table and a cigar in his
richly jewelled hand, reposed with crossed legs in an easy chair. He had
utterly recovered from the momentary irritation caused by Audrey's attack
on Strauss, and his perfect beaming satisfaction with himself made a
spectacle which would have distracted an Indian saint from the
contemplation