strings with his thumb. He struck up a
melody on the third but did not finish it.

"My word! If you have a violin there why not let me have it at once?"

The dealer flushed. "Try this, sir. But I do not promise you that I
shall sell it."

"Ah!" Hawksley stretched out his hands to receive the instrument.

Of course Cutty had heard of Amati and Stradivari, master and pupil. He
knew that all famous violinists possessed instruments of these schools,
and that such violins were practically beyond the reach of many. Only
through some great artist's death or misfortune did a fine violin return
to the marts. But the rejected fiddles had sounded musically enough for
him and looked as if they were well up in the society of select fiddles.
The fiddle Hawksley now held in his hands was dull, almost black. The
maple neck was worn to a shabby gray and the varnish had been sweated
off the chin rest.

Hawksley laid his fingers on the strings and drew the bow with a
powerful flourishing sweep. The rich, sonorous tones vibrated after the
bow had passed. Then followed the tricks by which an artist seeks
to discover flaws or wolf notes. A beatific expression settled upon
Hawksley face. He nestled the violin comfortably under his chin and
began to play softly. Cutty, the nurse, and the dealer became images.

Minors; a bit of a dance; more minors; nothing really begun, nothing
really finished--sketches, with a melancholy note running through them
all. While that pouring into his ears enchained his body it stirred
recollections in Cutty's mind: The fair at Novgorod; the fiddling
mountebanks; Russian.

Perhaps the dealer's astonishment was greatest. An Englishman! Who ever
heard of an Englishman playing a violin like that?

"I will buy it," said Hawksley, sinking back.

"Sir," began the dealer, "I am horribly embarrassed. I cannot sell
that violin because it isn't mine. It is an Amati worth ten thousand
dollars."

"I will give you twelve."

"But, sir--"

"Name a price," interrupted Hawksley, rather imperiously. "I want it."

Cutty understood that he was witnessing a flash of the ancient blood. To
want anything was to have it.

"I repeat, sir, I cannot sell it. It belongs to a Hungarian who is now
in Hungary. I loaned him fifteen hundred and took the Amati as security.
Until I learn if he is dead I cannot dispose of the violin. I am sorry.
But because you are a real artist, sir, I will loan it to you if you
will make a deposit