ng, his fingers barely touching the
strings--the snatch of a theme--a trill, low and passionate--the rush
of a scale. He toyed with the Stradivarius mocking it, clasping it,
listening.

His overwrought nerves were as pinpoints pricking his body. His brain
was like a church, the organ of music filling it, thundering,
reverberating, dying away; and then, as he lay back exhausted, low,
subtle, insinuating ran the theme in his ears, the maddening motive.

Beside him was a stand, with a decanter of red wine and a glass. The
wine was lustrous and sparkling. He drank of it, and lit another
cigarette and threw it away. Presently Velasco took from his pocket a
twist of paper blotted, and studied it, with his head in his hands.

"_Will you help me--life or death--tonight? Kaya._"

He listened again.

The theme was still running, the black notes dancing; but between them
intertwined was a face, upturned, exquisite, the eyes pleading, the
lips parted, hands clasped and beckoning. That night at the
Mariinski--ah!

He had searched for her everywhere. Ushers had flown from loggia to
loggia, ransacking the Theatre. Next to the Imperial Box, or was it
the second? To the right?--no, the left! Below, or perhaps on the
Bel-Etage?--All in vain. Was it only a dream? He stared down at the
twist of paper blotted "_Kaya--to-night._"

Her name came to his lips and he repeated it aloud, smiling to himself,
musing. His eyes gazed into the coals, dreamy, heavy, half open,
gleaming like dark slits under the brows. They closed gradually and
his head fell lower. His hands relaxed. The violin lay on his breast,
his pale cheek resting against the arch.

He was asleep.

All of a sudden there came a light tap on the door. A pause, a tap,
still lighter; then another pause.

Velasco raised his head and tossed back his hair restlessly; his eyes
drooped again.

"Tap--tap."

He started and listened.

Some one was at the Studio door--something. It was like the flutter of
a bird's wing against the oak, softly, persistently.

"Tap--tap."

He rose slowly, reluctantly to his feet and went to the door. It was
strange, inexplicable. After two, and the moon was gone, the night was
dark--unless--An eager look came into his eyes.

"Who is there?" he cried, "Who are you? What do you want?"

A silence followed, as if the bird had poised suddenly with wings
outstretched, hovering. Then it came again against the oak: "Tap--tap."