'm pretty well fixed, you see."

"Decidedly so."

"Intellectual diversion in abundance; even the artistic element is not
wholly wanting."

He stepped over to a table in the far corner; a phonographic machine of
some kind stood upon it. Indiman touched a lever, and again I heard
that unforgettable melody, "Ah, fors e lui," and in her voice--her
voice! A cry escaped me. Indiman pushed me back into my chair. "Be good
enough to listen," he said, and I obeyed.

"While you have been laid up," he began, "I have been amusing myself
with a little theory building. I had taken the liberty to sequestrate
the remarkable phonographic apparatus of your quondam friend Dr.
Gonzales; in fact, I carried it away in the same carriage with your
honorable self from the house of the Philadelphia 'quizzing-glass.' The
police didn't notice--that was all.

"Dr. Gonzales was a genius, and his instrument is a revolution in
phonographs--purity of tone, perfect enunciation, and all that. But the
really interesting thing (to me as to you) was not the machine, but the
records that it used. To whom belonged the voice that these little
disks and cylinders so faithfully reproduced? It was a real woman who
had poured the passion and sorrow of life into this insentient
mechanism. And the medium had been sufficient; your heart had responded.

"You were my friend, and I could not be indifferent to aught that
concerned you. We are, neither of us, sentimental, so the bare
statement of the fact is sufficient. You were on your back, and so it
was my part to go to work. I did.

"It is unprofitable business looking for a needle in a hay-stack when
you can buy a packet of the best helix No. 8's at any shop for a
nickel. But after spending a blank week interviewing the makers of
phonographic records I began to feel doubtful of my economic theory.
Nowhere could I find the slightest trace of this particular job of
record-making. And then one day I ran across a chap named Hugens, who
was in the business in a small way. His place was three blocks east of
the Bowery, but I've forgotten the name of the cross street.

"It was the usual experience at first--no information--but something
told me that the man was lying. Finally, I pretended to give up the
inquiry and left the shop. It was after dark on a snowy January
afternoon, and I started to walk over to the Madison Avenue cars. I
dawdled along purposely so as to give the telephone time to get in its
work, and th