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228 in your recognition of Mr. Goad. Goad, let me introduce to you my friend, who is also a musician—Mr. Attree."

Old Groome—or Mr. Goad—favoured me with an old-fashioned little bow. It was old Groome to the life.

"I shall be honoured by the pleasure of your acquaintance, Mr. Attree."

Then he took my hand.

Bensberg and I went home with him to his rooms to supper. He insisted on our going—just in old Groome's hospitable way—and as, for some reason, Bensberg would not go without me, I went with him.

Throughout the remainder of that night I was in a sort of waking nightmare. If I could credit the evidence of my own senses I was in the presence of Mr. Groome. If I could credit Mr. Groome himself, I was in the presence of Mr. Goad. He played to us. I never heard such playing before. I hope never to hear the like of it again. It had such an effect upon me that, when we said "good-night," I felt as if I had maddened myself by heavy drinking.

"Well," asked Bensberg, as we walked away, repeating the inquiry which he had put to me at the Apollo, "what do you think of him?"

I took off my hat, so that my brow might be bared to the cool night breezes.

"Think of him! Bensberg, I am beginning to think that I am going mad."

He peered into my face as he moved beside me.

"Odd that you should have mistaken him for someone else."

"You would not think it odd if you knew the