ng. One transgression; he was sure of that.
The boy was all conscience, and he suffered through this conscience
to such lengths that the law would be impotent to add anything. All
this muddle to placate his conscience!

"Here--quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand. "Put
it in your teeth and light it. I hear her coming."

Spurlock obeyed mechanically. The candle was shaking in his hand as
Ruth appeared in the doorway.

"I thought we were going to have some music," she said.

Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. Flesh and blood,
vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had
become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. And this
utter stranger ... loved him! He had no reason to doubt
McClintock's statement; the Scot had solved the riddle why Ruth
Enschede had married Howard Spurlock. All emotions laid hold of
him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. For a space
he rode the whirligig.

"We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. Observing
Spurlock's spell-bound attitude, he clapped the boy on the
shoulder. "Come along! We'll start that concert right away."

In the living room Spurlock's glance was constantly drawn toward
Ruth; but in fear that she might sense something wrong, he walked
over to the piano and struck a few chords.

"You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls.

"A little. This is a good piano."

"It ought to be; it cost enough to get it here," said the Scot,
ruefully. "Ever play one of these machines?"

"Yes. I've always been more or less music-mad. But machinery will
never approach the hand."

"I know a man.... But I'll tell you about him some other time. I'm
crazy over music, too. I can't pump out all there is to these
compositions. Try something."

Spurlock gratefully accepted the Grieg _concerto_, gratefully,
because it was brilliant and thunderous. _Papillon_ would have
broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and
like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night.
He played for an hour--Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing
music. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony,
too, that helped. He had been for months without music of the
character he loved--and he dared not play any of it!

McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a
corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. His
interest was divided: while his ears