essed lips.

"I'll bet it's some German who has boozed too much at home, and his
folks have thrown him out," hinted Billy.

"German? That's no German, I swear. It's Hungarian, Bohemian or Pole.
Besides, he drinks whiskey."

"Yes, drinks too much, but it hasn't hurt his playing--yet: just listen
to the beggar play that prelude."

The B flat minor Prelude, with its dark, rich, rushing cascade of
scales, its grim iteration and ceaseless questioning, spun through the
room, and again came the curious silence. Even the Oberkellner listened,
his mouth ajar. The waiters paused midway in their desperate gaming with
victuals, and for a moment the place was wholly given over to music. The
mounting unison passage and the smashing chords at the close awakened
the diners from the trance into which they had been thrown by the
magnetic fluid at the tips of the pianist's fingers; the bustle began,
Harry and Billy ordered more beer and drew deep breaths.

"He's a wonder, that's all I know, and I'm going to grab him. What
technique, what tone, what a touch!" cried Harry, who had been assistant
music critic on an afternoon paper.

A card, with a pencilled invitation, was sent to the pianist, and the
place being quite dark the electric lights began hoarsely whistling in a
canary colored haze. The musician came over to the table and, bowing
very low, took a seat.

"You will excuse me," he said, "if I do not eat. I have trouble with my
heart, and I drink whiskey. Yes, I will be happy to join you in another
glass of very bad whiskey. No, I am not a Pole; I am English, and not a
nobleman. I look like Paderewski, but can't play nearly as well. Here is
my card." The name was commonplace, Wilkins, but was prefixed by the
more unusual Feodor.

"You've some Russian in you after all?" questioned Billy.

"Perhaps. Feodor is certainly Russian. I often play Tschaikowsky. I know
that you wonder why I am in such a place. I will tell you. I like human
nature, and where can you get such an opportunity to come into contact
with it in the raw as this place?"

Billy winked at Harry and ordered more drinks. The pale Feodor Wilkins
drank with the same precipitate gesture, as if eager with thirst. He
spoke in a refined manner, and was evidently an educated man.

"I have no story, my friends. I'm not a genius in disguise, neither am I
a drunkard--one may safely drink at the seaside--and if, perhaps, like
Robert Louis Stevenson, I play at being an amat