slow, appreciative smile. "I see, young man, you
have got a head on your shoulders. Well now, let us come to this
letter."

Nello was only too anxious that he should.

"I am waiting for that, Baron. Of course I can only guess at the
contents that he has recommended me to you."

"That he does in the warmest terms, and for the sake of our old
friendship I am prepared to comply with his request. In this letter,
which is not dated--he explains that by the fact that he does not know
how soon his death will take place--he states that you are hoping to
establish yourself as an artist, that he has already secured you a
small, but fairly remunerative, engagement at the Parthenon."

"That is quite true, sir."

"Then, I take it, this letter was antecedent to your considerable
success at the Covent Garden Concert. In that comparatively short
space of time, your remuneration has gone up by leaps and bounds?"

Nello assented for the second time. "Perfectly correct, sir."

"Then how do we stand? Of course, if you were quite a poor man, I
would find you a post at once for the sake of my old friendship with
Jean Villefort. But, candidly, do you want my assistance? I am not
dissatisfied with my lot, Signor Corsini, I can assure you----"

And Nello murmured, half under his breath: "I should think you were
not, Baron, you a financier of European renown."

A whimsical smile overspread the other man's features. "And yet I will
tell you a little secret. Music is a passion with me. I am a financier
by profession, but art, art alone absorbs my soul. I have tried, oh
how hard! to be an executant on more than one instrument. Signor
Corsini, I would pay you a hundred thousand pounds to-morrow, if you
could teach me to play that exquisite little romance as you played it
last night. I feel every note in my soul, but when my feeble fingers
touch the strings, they are powerless."

Nello looked at him compassionately. There was in his composition
the hard Latin fibre; but here was a new experience for him. Here
was a man who had achieved eminence in one of the most difficult
professions, a man who could write a cheque for one or two millions.
And here he was, lamenting his incapacity to succeed in an art for
which nature had given him no equipment.

"It is very sad, Baron," breathed the young Italian softly. "But in
your case, the gods have given so generously. Why should you complain
that they have withheld this one small gift, the gift o