aved his plump hands
deprecatingly, in well-bred apology for the unaccountable vagaries of
the aristocracy. "Will you take me to him, please?"

Corsini led him up the shabby, narrow staircase into the small
apartment containing the two beds, in one of which the now successful
violinist was used to sleep.

Anita was hanging over the bed, with a white face, the tears raining
down her cheeks. In those few seconds of the conversation between her
brother and the doctor, the poor old man's soul had taken flight to
happier realms.

Sir Charles stepped to the other side, and his trained eye took in the
situation at once.

"Alas, my dear sir, too late! He has passed away, absolutely without
pain, I assure you. But I could have done nothing for him. He is very
old: a clear case of senile decay, aggravated by the malady from which
he has been suffering. Your local doctor will give you a certificate."

He looked intently at the white countenance. Sir Charles might not be
a very clever physician, as his less opulent colleagues were always
very fond of affirming, but he had special gifts of his own.

"A fine, intellectual head, a distinguished face. I should not be
surprised if he had once been a man of some distinction. Do you know
anything of his antecedents?"

Nello shook his head. "Next to nothing. Our acquaintance has been too
recent for much confidence, but he has been very kind to myself and
sister. I gather that he was at one time a very celebrated pianist."

"His name, the Princess told me over the 'phone, was Peron. With the
recollection of all the great artists for, say, fifty years, I cannot
recall that name. We have here, my dear sir, a mystery, and probably a
tragedy also. I will keep you no longer. A thousand regrets that my
visit has been so useless."

Nello saw the plump, urbane man to the door, and then returned to the
little bedroom where poor old Papa Peron, of the kind heart and the
caustic tongue, lay in the last sleep of all.

CHAPTER V

His heart heavy with grief at the loss of his kind old friend, who had
been to him and his sister a second father, Nello Corsini faced again
a fastidious and critical audience in the saloons of the Russian
Embassy.

Last night he had played to the elite of the fashionable world, made
up of its many elements. Royalty, as represented by the sovereign and
her children, the flower of the aristocracy, subordinate members of
the financial and commercial world,