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maker's namestrange；'' he said。 He
tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and
listened intently； ‘‘he must be asleep； he
won't hear me；'' and noiselessly he
closed the door。 ‘‘I guess if I play a
tune on it he won't know。''
He took the bow from its place in the
case and tightened it。 He listened
again。 ‘‘He is fast asleep；'' he whispered。
‘‘I'll play the song I always
played for heruntil；'' and the old man
repeated the words of the refrain：
‘‘Fair as a lily； joyous and free；
Light of the prairie home was she；
Every one who knew her felt the gentle power
Of Rosalie； the Prairie Flower。''
He sat again in the arm…chair and
placed the violin under his chin。
Tremulously he drew the bow across the
middle string； his bloodless fingers moving
slowly up and down。
The theme he played was the melody
to the verse he had just repeated； but the
expression was remorse。
***
Diotti sat upright in bed。 ‘‘I am
positive I heard a violin！'' he said； holding
one hand toward his head in an attitude
of listening。 He was wide awake。 The
drifting snow beat against the window
panes and the wind without shrieked like
a thousand demons of the night。 He
could sleep no more。 He arose and
hastily dressed。 The room was bitterly
cold； he was shivering。 He thought of
the crackling logs in the fire…place below。
He groped his way along the darkened
staircase。 As he opened the door leading
into the sitting…room the fitful gleam
of the dying embers cast a ghastly light
over the face of a corpse。
Diotti stood a moment； his eyes
transfixed with horror。 The violin and bow
still in the hands of the dead man told
him plainer than words what had happened。
He went toward the chair； took
the instrument from old Sanders' hands
and laid it on the table。 Then he knelt
beside the body； and placing his ear
close over the heart； listened for some
sign of life； but the old man was beyond
human aid。
He wheeled the chair to the side of
the room and moved the body to the
sofa。 Gently he covered it with a robe。
The awfulness of the situation forced
itself upon him； and bitterly he blamed
himself。 The terrible power of the
instrument dawned upon him in all its
force。 Often he had played on the strings
telling of pity； hope； love and joy； but
now； for the first time； he realized what
that fifth string meant。
‘‘I must give it back to its owner。''
‘‘If you do you can never regain it；''
whispered a voice within。
‘‘I do not need it；'' said the violinist；
almost audibly。
‘‘Perhaps not；'' said the voice； ‘‘but
if her love should wane how would you
rekindle it？ Without the violin you
would be helpless。''
‘‘Is it not possible that； in this old man's death；
all its fatal power has been expended？''
He went to the table and took the
instrument from its place。 ‘‘You won her
for me； you have brought happiness
and sunshine into my life。 No！ No！
I can not； will not give you up；'' then
placing the violin and bow in its case he
locked it。
The day was breaking。 In an hour
the baker's boy came。 Diotti went to
the door； gave him a note addressed to
Mr。 Wallace and asked him to deliver it
at once。 The boy consented and drove
rapidly away。
Within an hour Mr。 Wallace arrived；
Diotti told the story of the night。 After
the undertaker had taken charge of the
body he found on the dead man's neck；
just to the left of the chin； a dullish；
black bruise which might have been
caused by the pressing of some blunt
instrument； or by a man's thumb。 Considering
it of much importance； he notified
the coroner； who ordered an inquest。
At six o'clock that evening a jury was
impaneled； and two hours later its
verdict was reported。
XIII
On leaving the house of the dead man
Diotti walked wearily to his hotel。
In flaring type at every street corner he
saw the announcement for Thursday
evening； March thirty…first； of Angelo
Diotti's last appearance： ‘‘To…night I
play for the last time；'' he murmured in
a voice filled with deepest regret。
The feeling of exultation so common
to artists who finally reach the goal of
their ambition was wanting in Diotti this
morning。 He could not rid himself of
the memory of Sanders' tragic death。
The figure of the old man clutching the
violin and staring with glassy eyes into
the dying fire would not away。
When he reached the hotel he tried to
rest； but his excited brain banished
every thought of slumber。 Restlessly
he moved about the room； and finally
dressing； he left the hotel for his daily
call on Mildred。 It was after five o'clock
when he arrived。 She received him coldly
and without any mark of affection。
She had heard of Mr。 Sanders' death；
her father had sent word。 ‘‘It shocked
me greatly；'' she said； ‘‘but perhaps the
old man is happier in a world far from
strife and care。 When we realize all the
misery there is in this world we often
wonder why we should care to live。''
Her tone was despondent； her face was
drawn and blanched； and her eyes gave
evidence of weeping。
Diotti divined that something beyond
sympathy for old Sanders' sudden death
racked her soul。 He went toward her
and lovingly taking her hands； bent low
and pressed his lips to them； they were
cold as marble。
‘‘Darling；'' he said； ‘‘something has
made you unhappy。 What is it？''
‘‘Tell me； Angelo； and truly； is your
violin like other violins？''
This unexpected question came so
suddenly he could not control his agitation。
‘‘Why do you ask？'' he said。
‘‘You must answer me directly！''
‘‘No； Mildred； my violin is different
from any other I have ever seen；'' this
hesitatingly and with great effort at
composure。
‘‘In what way is it different？'' she
almost demanded。
‘‘It is peculiarly constructed； it has
an extra string。 But why this sudden
interest in the violin？ Let us talk of
you； of me； of both； of our future；'' said
he with enforced cheerfulness。
‘‘No； we will talk of the violin。 Of
what use is the extra string？''
‘‘None whatever；'' was the quick reply。
‘‘Then why not cut it off？''
‘‘No； no； Mildred； you do not
understand；'' he cried； ‘‘I can not do
that。''
‘‘You can not do it when I ask it？''
she exclaimed。
‘‘Oh Mildred； do not ask me； I can
not； can not do it；'' and the face of the
affrighted musician told plainer than
words of the turmoil raging in his soul。
‘‘You made me believe that I was the
only one you loved；'' passionately she
cried； ‘‘the only one； that your happiness
was incomplete without me。 You led
me into the region of light only to make
the darkness greater when I descended
to earth again。 I ask you to do a simple
thing and you refuse； you refuse because
another has commanded you。''
‘‘Mildred； Mildred； if you love me do
not speak thus！''
And she； with imagination greater than
reasoning power； at once saw a Tuscan
beauty and Diotti mutually pledging their
love with their lives。
‘‘Go；'' she said； pointing to the door；
‘‘go to the one who owns you； body and
soul； then say that a foolish woman threw
her heart at your feet and that you
scorned it！'' She sank to the sofa。
He went toward the door； and in a
voice that sounded like the echo of
despair； protested： ‘‘Mildred； I love you；
love you a thousand times more than I
do my life。 If I should destroy the
string； as you ask； love and hope would
leave me forevermore。 Death would
not be robbed of its terror！'' and with
bowed head he went forth into the twilight。
She ran to the window and watched
his retreating figure as he vanished。
‘‘Uncle Sanders was right； he loves
another woman； and that string binds them
together。 He belongs to her！'' Long
and silently she stood by the window；
gazing at the shadowing curtain of the
coming night。 At last her face softened。
‘‘Perhaps he does not love her now； but
fears her vengeance。 No； no； he is not
a coward！ I should have approached
him differently； he is proud； and maybe
he resented my imperative manner；''
and a thousand reasons why he should
or should not have removed that string
flashed through her mind。
‘‘I will go early to the concert to…
night and see him before he plays。
Uncle Sanders said he did not touch that
string when he played。 Of course he
will play on it for me； even if he will not
cut it off； and then if he says he loves
me； and only me； I will believe him。 I
want to believe him； I want to believe
him；'' all this in a semi…hysterical way
addressed to the violinist's portrait on
the piano。
When she entered her carriage an hour
later； telling the coachman to drive direct
to the stage…door of the Academy； she
appeared more fascinating than ever before。
She w