hither by the cutting wind that came through the streets in great
gusts. Turning to the violinist, he said, "It's an awful night; better
remain here until morning. You'll not find a cab; in fact, I will not
let you go while this storm continues," and the old man raised the
window, thrusting his head out for an instant. As he did so the icy
blast that came in settled any doubt in the young man's mind and he
concluded to stop over night.

It was nearly two o'clock; Sanders showed him to his room and then
returned down stairs to see that everything was snug and secure. After
changing his heavy shoes for a pair of old slippers and wrapping a
dressing gown around him, the old man stretched his legs toward the
fire and sipped his toddy.

"He isn't a bad sort for a violinist," mused the old man; "if he were
worth a million, I believe I'd advise Wallace to let him marry her. A
fiddler! A million! Sounds funny," and he laughed shrilly.

He turned his head and his eyes caught sight of Diotti's violin case
resting on the center table. He staggered from the chair and went
toward it; opening the lid softly, he lifted the silken coverlet placed
over the instrument and examined the strings intently. "I am right," he
said; "it is wrapped with hair, and no doubt from a woman's head.
Eureka!" and the old man, happy in the discovery that his surmises were
correct, returned to his chair and his toddy.

He sat looking into the fire. The violin had brought back memories of
the past and its dead. He mumbled, as if to the fire, "she loved me;
she loved my violin. I was a devil; my violin was a devil," and the
shadows on the wall swayed like accusing spirits. He buried his face in
his hands and cried piteously, "I was so young; too young to know." He
spoke as if he would conciliate the ghastly shades that moved
restlessly up and down, when suddenly--"Sanders, don't be a fool!"

He ambled toward the table again. "I wonder who made the violin? He
would not tell me when I asked him to-night; thank you for your pains,
but I will find out myself," and he took the violin from the case.
Holding it with the light slanting over it, he peered inside, but found
no inscription. "No maker's name--strange," he said. He tiptoed to the
foot of the stairs and listened intently; "he must be asleep; he won't
hear me," and noiselessly he closed the door. "I guess if I play a tune
on it he won't know."

He took the bow from its place in the case and tighten