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For a while he sat with bowed head. Then raising himself suddenly, he ran his fingers over the keyboard, and the gay tones of the “Valse d’Espagne” danced like demons out upon the silence that had followed Beethoven’s Andante.

Ormarr, who had been standing deep in thought, looked round with a start; Grahl rose from the music-stool with a harsh laugh.

“A fancy of mine,” he said shortly, “to let Waldteufel loose on the heels of Beethoven.”

He went across to the table, lit a cigar, and slipped into an easy-chair.

Ormarr followed his movements intently. There was a strange expression in his eyes, and the lines on his forehead and face seemed deeper than usual.

Grahl paid no heed to him; he was smoking, and evidently occupied with his own reflections. When Ormarr moved, he looked up, and pointed to a chair.

“Sit down, Ormarr; not time to go home yet. Take a cigar.”

“Thanks.”

Ormarr took a cigar and lit it, covertly watching the expression of the old man’s face.

“Sit there, Ormarr, where I can see you; that’s it. I was thinking, there’s not much left of the peasant lad who came up here that morning ten years ago. The eyes are the same, yes; and a look about the face—I’ve noticed it the last few days.... Anyhow, it was as well I didn’t send you away that day after all.”