Page:Burton Stevenson--The marathon mystery.djvu/175

Rh She flushed and her fingers crashed out an indignant chord of protest. Drysdale, drawn by some compelling uneasiness, approached them. Tremaine had been turning over the music as he talked; his ears, sensitive as a cat’s, caught the sound of Drysdale’s footsteps.

“Shall we try this one?” he asked aloud, and placed a sheet on the rack before her.

Without answering, she swept into the prelude.

His voice was an admirable tenor, and he sang the lines with a meaning and expression that brought the warm blood to her cheek. When it was done, he acknowledged the applause with a little bow, casting at Drysdale a glance at once triumphant and ironic. And in that instant, Drysdale knew that the song had not been chosen by chance—that Tremaine had paused to listen at the stair-head. A sudden abyss yawned before him—here was a rival who would pause at nothing; who already had about him a certain air of victory. Drysdale clenched his teeth with a quick breath; well, he would make the fight of his life to keep what he had won!

“More, more!” clamoured Delroy. “You could make your fortune as a stage lover, Tremaine.”

“Ah, there is a difference between the sham and the true!” said Tremaine, in a tone full of meaning. “You are an excellent accompanist, Miss Croydon;