eur emigrant, I certainly
do not intend writing a book of my experiences."

The newspaper boys were disappointed. There was, then, no lovely mystery
to be unravelled, no subterrene story excavated, no romance at all,
nothing but a spiritual looking Englishman with an odd first name and a
gift of piano playing.

Mr. Wilkins gave a little laugh, for he read the faces of his
companions. As if to add another accent to their disappointment he
ordered a Swiss cheese sandwich, and spoke harshly to the waiter for not
bringing mustard with it. Then he turned to Harry:

"You love music?"

"Crazy for it, but see here, Mr.--Mr. Wilkins, why don't you play in
public? I don't mean this kind of a public, but before a Philharmonic
audience! This sort of cattle must make you sick, and for heaven's sake,
man, what do they pay you?" Harry's face was big with suppressed
questions. The pianist paused in his munching of bread and cheese. His
fine luminous eyes twinkled: "My dear boy, I have a story--a short
one--and I fancy that it will explain the mystery. I am twenty-seven
years old. Yes, that's all, but I've lived and--loved."

"Ah, a petticoat!" exclaimed Harry, triumphantly; "I was sure of it."

"No, not a petticoat, but a piano was the cause of my undoing. Vaulting
ambition and all that sort of thing. My parents were easy in
circumstances and I was brought up to be a pianist. Deliberately planned
to be a virtuoso. I was sent to Leschetizky, to Von Buelow, to
Rubinstein, to Liszt. I studied scales in Paris with Plante, trills in
Bologna with Martucci, octaves with Rosenthal; in Vienna I met Joseffy,
and with him I studied double notes. Wait until later and I shall play
for you the Chopin Study in G sharp minor! I mastered twenty-two
concertos and even knew the parts for the triangle. Then at the age of
twenty-five, after the best teachers in Europe had taught me their
particular craft I returned to England, to London, and gave a concert.
It was an elaborate affair. The best orchestra, with Hans Richter, was
secured by my happy father, and after the third rehearsal he embraced
me, saying that he could go to his grave a satisfied man, for his son
was a piano artist. There must have been a strain of Slavic in the old
man, he loved Chopin and Tschaikowsky so. My mother was less
demonstrative, but she was as truly delighted as my father. Picture to
yourself the transports of these two devoted old people! And when I left
them the night