le and took the instrument from its place. "You won
her for me; you have brought happiness and sunshine into my life. No!
No! I can not, will not give you up," then placing the violin and bow
in its case he locked it.

The day was breaking. In an hour the baker's boy came. Diotti went to
the door, gave him a note addressed to Mr. Wallace and asked him to
deliver it at once. The boy consented and drove rapidly away.

Within an hour Mr. Wallace arrived; Diotti told the story of the night.
After the undertaker had taken charge of the body he found on the dead
man's neck, just to the left of the chin, a dullish, black bruise which
might have been caused by the pressing of some blunt instrument, or by
a man's thumb. Considering it of much importance, he notified the
coroner, who ordered an inquest.

At six o'clock that evening a jury was impaneled, and two hours later
its verdict was reported.

XIII

On leaving the house of the dead man Diotti walked wearily to his
hotel. In flaring type at every street corner he saw the announcement
for Thursday evening, March thirty-first, of Angelo Diotti's last
appearance: "To-night I play for the last time," he murmured in a voice
filled with deepest regret.

The feeling of exultation so common to artists who finally reach the
goal of their ambition was wanting in Diotti this morning. He could not
rid himself of the memory of Sanders' tragic death. The figure of the
old man clutching the violin and staring with glassy eyes into the
dying fire would not away.

When he reached the hotel he tried to rest, but his excited brain
banished every thought of slumber. Restlessly he moved about the room,
and finally dressing, he left the hotel for his daily call on Mildred.
It was after five o'clock when he arrived. She received him coldly and
without any mark of affection.

She had heard of Mr. Sanders' death; her father had sent word. "It
shocked me greatly," she said; "but perhaps the old man is happier in a
world far from strife and care. When we realize all the misery there is
in this world we often wonder why we should care to live." Her tone was
despondent, her face was drawn and blanched, and her eyes gave evidence
of weeping.

Diotti divined that something beyond sympathy for old Sanders' sudden
death racked her soul. He went toward her and lovingly taking her
hands, bent low and pressed his lips to them; they were cold as marble.

"Darling," he said; "something has ma