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“I know that, Blad.”

Ormarr got up, switched on the light, looked through a bundle of newspapers and found the one he was looking for. Nervously he turned the pages till he came to the shipping intelligence.

“There is a boat leaving the day after tomorrow.”

He dropped the paper, walked up and down the room several times, shaking his head defiantly, as if at his own thoughts, then threw himself down in a chair. A moment later he glanced at his watch, and rose reluctantly.

“It’s time I went round now—to Grahl. The final rehearsal....”

In the big room where, ten years before, a curious figure of a boy in ill-fitting clothes had called on him for the first time, Abel Grahl sat at the piano accompanying the later stage of that same youth—now a slender, pale-faced young man. They were playing a nocturne—the only one of Ormarr’s own compositions on the morrow’s program. The theme was that same one of the sunset with which Ormarr had introduced himself to his master, only the technique was different.