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Mary Trevert was no fool. She was, on the contrary, a remarkably quick-witted young person. The sight of that rather "loud" overcoat instantly recalled the stranger so strikingly resembling Mr. Jeekes who had disappeared down the lane as she was coming away from Mr. Schulz's house. Mr. Jeekes was in Rotterdam then, and had, of course, been sent by her mother to look after her.
Kunz made a face; but he did not protest and got up with the others; he was as desirous as Schulz of showing Christophe the beauties of the country. They went out. Christophe took Schulz's arm and made him walk a little faster than the old man liked. Kunz followed mopping his brow. They talked gaily.
"There's one thing you haven't explained," he said, "and that's how Miss Trevert came to walk into the hands of these precious ruffians ..." "There, perhaps, I can help you," said the doctor from behind one of Herr Schulz's rank cigars; "I have it from Miss Trevert herself.
All unconsciously he paid the tribute of 'sir' to Herr Schulz's undoubted habit of command. "Victor Marbran," replied the big man, "is Elias van der Spyck & Co., a firm which made millions in the war by trading with the enemy.
Sometimes he sang the different parts, in a light, sweet tenor; sometimes recited them, with dramatic fervour. Only he never ceased to play, never gave his hearer a moment in which to recover himself. Frau Schulz's entry with the lamp, and her grumblings at the "UNVERSCHAMTE SPEKTAKEL" passed unheeded. A strength that was more than human seemed to take possession of the frail youth at the piano.
Kunz sank into a chair; he was longing to have a sleep. Schulz's legs were worn out by his exertions of the morning and by standing for his toasts. They both hoped that Christophe would sit at the piano again and go on playing for hours.
And old Schulz's friendship had been taken from him almost as soon as it had been given. He had written once on his return, and he had received two affectionate letters, but from sheer laziness, and especially because of the difficulty he had expressing himself in a letter, he delayed thanking him for his kind words. He put off writing from day to day.
Kunz, finding no response from him, tried to break the silence by talking to Schulz; but Schulz's throat was dry, he could not speak. Christophe watched him out of the corner of his eyes and he wanted to laugh; he had forgiven him already.
Schulz urged, "this was a private letter which Mr. ... Mr. Dulkinghorn certainly did not expect you to see. That makes it awkward ..." "I think in the circumstances," said Mary, "I must insist, Mr. Schulz!" She was now feeling horribly frightened. She strained her ears in vain for a sound. The whole house seemed wrapped in a grave-like quiet. The smile had never left Mr. Schulz's face.
And he touched them-four or five notes that were fairly true, half an octave in the middle register of the instrument, Christophe understood that it was an old friend and he said kindly, thinking of Schulz's eyes: "Yes. It still has beautiful eyes." Schulz's face lit up. He launched out on an involved eulogy of his old piano, but he dropped immediately, for Christophe had begun to play again.
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