's playing which the
great masters, such as Paganini, must have had. As the music ceased, he
did not speak, but remained leaning against the great red-plush barber's
chair looking reflectively at the Romany. Berry, however, said to the
still absorbed musician: "Where did you learn to play?"

The Romany started, and a flush crossed his face. "Everywhere," he
answered sullenly.

"You've got the thing Sarasate had," Ingolby observed. "I only heard him
play but once--in London years ago: but there's the same something in
it. I bought a fiddle of Sarasate. I've got it now."

"Here in Lebanon?" The eyes of the Romany were burning. An idea had just
come into his brain. Was it through his fiddling that he was going to
find a way to deal with this Gorgio, who had come between him and his
own?

"Only a week ago it came," Ingolby replied. "They actually charged me
Customs duty on it. I'd seen it advertised, and I made an offer and got
it at last."

"You have it here--at your house here?" asked old Berry in surprise.

"It's the only place I've got. Did you think I'd put it in a museum? I
can't play it, but there it is for any one that can play. How would you
like to try it?" he added to Jethro in a friendly tone. "I'd give a good
deal to see it under your chin for an hour. Anyhow, I'd like to show it
to you. Will you come?"

It was like him to bring matters to a head so quickly.

The Romany's eyes glistened. "To play the Sarasate alone to you?" he
asked.

"That's it-at nine o'clock to-night, if you can."

"I will come--yes, I will come," Jethro answered, the lids drooping over
his eyes in which were the shadows of the first murder of the created
world.

"Here is my address, then." Ingolby wrote something on his
visiting-card. "My man'll let you in, if you show that. Well, good-bye."

The Romany took the card, and turned to leave. He had been dismissed by
the swaggering Gorgio, as though he was a servant, and he had not even
been asked his name, of so little account was he! He could come and play
on the Sarasate to the masterful Gorgio at the hour which the masterful
Gorgio fixed--think of that! He could be--a servant to the pleasure
of the man who was stealing from him the wife sealed to him in the
Roumelian country. But perhaps it was all for the best--yes, he would
make it all for the best! As he left the shop, however, and passed down
the street his mind remained in the barber-shop. He saw in imagination
the mast