brown moustache and eyes grey or blue, and close-cropped fair
hair. The hirsute and uncombed genius of the street had vanished.

'Don't stare like that, sir,' said the transformed comically. 'Here are
the props.' He held up a ragged wig and beard.

'The what?' asked Christopher. 'The props,' returned the other. 'Props
are properties. Properties are theatrical belongings. There's nothing
diabolical or supernatural about it. Wait a minute, and I'll light the
lamp and set the fire going.'

Christopher stood in silence whilst his new acquaintance bustled
about the room. The lamp cast a full and mellow light over the whole
apartment, and the fire began to crackle and leap merrily.

'Sit down,' said the host, and Christopher obeyed. 'I always like to
take the bull by the horns,' the host continued with a little blush. 'I
didn't want to be found out at this game, but you have found me out, and
so I make the best of it, and throw myself upon your confidence.'

He took up the wig and beard lightly between his finger and thumb and
dropped them again, laughing and blushing.

'You may rely upon me,' said Christopher in his own dogged and sulky
tones. 'If I wanted to tell of it, I know nobody in London.'

'That was your theme, was it?' said the host, throwing one leg over the
other and nursing it with both hands.

'Yes,' said Christopher; 'you played it very accurately, you must have
a very fine memory.'

'I suppose I have,' said the other, with a little laugh. 'But it's a
wonderful thing.'

'Do you think so?' asked Christopher, blushing with pleasure.

'I do indeed,' his new acquaintance answered. 'Play something else of
yours.'

There was a bed in one corner of the room, and on this he had laid the
instrument and the bow when he came in. He arose now and proffered them
to Christopher. Christopher took them from his outstretched hand and
played. The other listened, nursing his leg again, and nodding at the
fire, in time to the music.

'You write better than you play,' he said at length, with more candour
than was altogether agreeable. 'Not that your playing isn't good, but
it misses--just misses--the real grip--the real royal thing. Only one
player in a million has it.'

'Do you think you have it?' asked Christopher, not sneeringly, though
the words might imply a sneer, but speaking because he was shy and felt
bound to say something.

'I?' said the other, with a merry laugh.

'O Lord no! A man can't bring out mo