ulder of the Infant, out of reach
of the tempting strings.

"I am not going to play," he said. "The very first time I really play,
must be in the studio, and Helen must be there. But I will just sound
the open strings."

He looked down upon the 'cello and waited, the light of expectation
brightening in his face.

Aubrey Treherne noted the remarkable correctness of the position he had
unconsciously assumed.

Then Ronnie, raising the bow, drew it, with unfaltering touch, across
the silver depths of lower C.

A rich, full note, rising, falling, vibrating, filled the room. The
Infant of Prague was singing. A master-hand had waked its voice once
more.

Ronnie's head swam. A hot mist was before his eyes. His breath came in
short sobs. He had completely forgotten the sardonic face of his wife's
cousin, in the chair opposite.

Then the hot mist cleared. He raised the bow once more, and drew it
across G.

G merged into D without a pause. Then, with a strong triumphant sweep,
he sounded A.

The four open strings of the 'cello had given forth their full sweetness
and power.

"Helen, oh, Helen!" said Ronnie.

Then he looked up, and saw Aubrey Treherne.

He laughed, rather unsteadily. "I thought I was at home," he said. "For
the moment it seemed as if I must be at home. I was experiencing the
purest joy I have known since I left Helen. What do you think of my
'cello, man? Isn't it wonderful?"

"It is very wonderful," said Aubrey Treherne. "Your Infant is all you
hoped. The tone is perfect. But what is still more wonderful is that
you--who believe yourself never to have handled a 'cello before--can set
the strings vibrating with such unerring skill; such complete mastery.
Of course, to me, the mystery is no mystery. The reason of it all is
perfectly clear."

"What is the reason of it all?" inquired Ronnie, eagerly.

"In a former existence, dear boy," said Aubrey Treherne, slowly, "you
were a great master of the 'cello. Probably the Infant of Prague was
your favourite instrument. It called to you from its high place in the
'cello room at Zimmermann's, as it has been calling to you for years;
only, at last, it made you hear. It was your own, and you knew it. You
would have bought it, had its price been a thousand pounds. You could
not have left the place without the Infant in your possession."

Ronald's feverish flush deepened. His eyes grew more burningly bright.

"What an extraordinary idea!" he said. "I don't