and honor
forbade him to draw back. It was true, however, that he was still face
to face with the difficulty which had been in his mind when he met his
messenger so conveniently.

He caught a street Arab, and promised him twopence if he would come and
blow for him while he practised. But he began by playing absently and
carelessly, for since the letter had been despatched his problem had
become infinitely more urgent, and it thrust itself between him and the
music. His fingers roved dreamily over the keys, his eyes wandered, as
if in spite of himself, to the east end of the church. All at once he
came out with an impatient "How _do_ people manage it?" and he finished
the muttered question with a strong word and a big chord.

A moment more, and his face is illuminated with the inward light of a
sudden idea. He lets his hands lie where they happen to be, he sits
there with parted lips and startled eyes. The idea is almost too
wonderful, too simple, too obvious, and yet--"By Jove!" says Bertie,
under his breath.

His street Arab means to earn his twopence, and in spite of the silence
he pumps away in a cheerful and conscientious manner till he shall be
bidden to stop. The organ protests in a long and dolorous note, and
startles the musician from his reverie. Forthwith he begins to play a
stirring march, and the rejoicing chords arise and rush and crowd
beneath his fingers. Has he indeed found the solution of his great
perplexity? Apparently he thinks so. He seems absolutely hurried along
in triumph on these waves of jubilant harmony. A ray of pale March
sunlight falls on his forehead and shines on his hair as he tosses his
head in the quickening excitement of the moment. His headache is gone,
his weariness is gone. The notes seem to gather like bands of armed men
and rush victoriously through the aisles. But even as he plays he laughs
to himself, a boyish, happy laugh, for this great idea which is to help
him out of all his difficulties is not only a great idea, but a great
joke. And the march rings louder yet, for with every note he plays his
thought grows clearer to his mind, plainer and more feasible. There is
a gay audacity about the laugh which lingers in Bertie's eyes and on his
lips, as if Dan Cupid himself had just been there, whispering some
choice scheme of roguish knavery, some artful artlessness, into the
young man's ear. Bertie does not acknowledge that his inspiration has
come in such a questionable fashi