glass, tumblers and several well-filled bottles, while
boxes of cigars and cigarettes flanked them. It was the height of modern
luxury imported from New York, and Jethro eyed it with envious inward
comment. The Gorgio had the world on his key-chain! Every door would
open to him--that was written on his face--unless Fate stepped in and
closed all doors!

The door of Fleda's heart had already been opened, but he had not yet
made his bed in it, and there was still time to help Fate, if her mystic
finger beckoned.

Jethro nodded in response to Ingolby's invitation to drink. "But I do
not drink much when I play," he remarked. "There's enough liquor in the
head when the fiddle's in the hand. 'Dadia', I do not need the spirit to
make the pulses go!"

"As little as you like then, if you'll only play as well as you did this
afternoon," Ingolby said cheerily. "I will play better," was the reply.

"On Sarasate's violin--well, of course."

"Not only because it is Sarasate's violin, 'Kowadji'!"

"Kowadji! Oh, come now, you may be a Gipsy, but that doesn't mean that
you're an Egyptian or an Arab. Why Arabic--why 'kowadji'?"

The other shrugged his shoulders. "Who can tell I speak many languages.
I do not like the Mister. It is ugly in the ear. Monsieur, signor,
effendi, kowadji, they have some respect in them."

"You wanted to pay me respect, eh?"

"You have Sarasate's violin!"

"I have a lot of things I could do without."

"Could you do without the Sarasate?"

"Long enough to hear you play it, Mr.--what is your name, may I ask?"

"My name is Jethro Fawe."

"Well, Jethro Fawe, my Romany 'chal', you shall show me what a violin
can do."

"You know the Romany lingo?" Jethro asked, as Ingolby went over to the
violin-case.

"A little--just a little."

"When did you learn it?" There was a sudden savage rage in Jethro's
heart, for he imagined Fleda had taught Ingolby.

"Many a year ago when I could learn anything and remember anything and
forget anything." Ingolby sighed. "But that doesn't matter, for I know
only a dozen words or so, and they won't carry me far."

He turned the violin over in his hands. "This ought to do a bit more
than the cotton-field fiddle," he said dryly.

He snapped the strings, looking at it with the love of the natural
connoisseur. "Finish your drink and your cigarette. I can wait," he
added graciously. "If you like the cigarettes, you must take some away
with you. You don't drink much, tha