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Mildred was there, more beautiful than ever, and to gain her love Diotti would have bartered his soul that moment. The first movement of the suite was entitled "Pity," and the music flowed like melodious tears. A subdued sob rose and fell with the sadness of the theme. Mildred's eyes were moistened as she fixed them on the lone figure of the player.
"Uncle," interposed Mildred tactfully, "you must not be so persistent. Signor Diotti prizes his violin highly and will not allow any one to play upon it but himself," and the look of relief on Diotti's face amply repaid her. Mr. Wallace came in at that moment, and with perfunctory interest in his guest, invited him to examine the splendid collection of revolutionary relics in his study.
"He will not refuse when I ask him, but I will not to-night," answered the unhappy girl, with forced determination. Then, taking the old man's hands, she said: "Good-night, I am going to my room; please make my excuses to Signor Diotti and father," and wearily she ascended the stairs. Mr.
"It is my desire," and the girl led the unwilling parent back of the scenes and into Diotti's dressing-room. Mildred introduced Diotti to her father, who after a few commonplaces lapsed into silence. The daughter's enthusiastic interest in Diotti's performance and her tender solicitude for his weariness after the efforts of the evening, quickly attracted the attention of Mr.
To cut it off would destroy the others, and then pity, hope, love and joy would cease to exist in the soul of the violin." "How like life itself," Diotti reflected, "pity, hope, love, joy end in death, and through death they are born again." "That's the idea, precisely," said Satan, evidently relieved by Diotti's logic and quick perception.
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.
The violinist examined the instrument with the practised eye of an expert, and turning to Satan said: "The four strings are beautifully white and transparent, but this one is black and odd looking. "What is it wrapped with?" eagerly inquired Diotti, examining the death string with microscopic care.
"I wonder where Diotti is," and then came unmistakable signs of impatience. At its height Perkins appeared, hesitatingly. Nervous and jerky he walked to the center of the stage, and raised his hand begging silence. The audience was stilled. "Ladies and gentlemen," he falteringly said, "Signor Diotti left his hotel at seven o'clock and was driven to the Academy.
When Diotti and old Sanders left the house they walked rapidly down Fifth Avenue. It was after eleven, and the streets were bare of pedestrians, but blinking-eyed cabs came up the avenue, looking at a distance like a trail of Megatheriums, gliding through the darkness.
"I never allow any one to touch my violin," replied Diotti, closing the cover quickly. "Why; is there a magic charm about it, that you fear other hands may discover?" queried the old man. "I prefer that no one handle it," said the virtuoso commandingly. "Very well," sighed the old man resignedly, "there are violins and violins, and no doubt yours comes within that category," this half sneeringly.
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