The Red Book Magazine/Volume 37/Number 1/The Vanishing Violin

ALLACE RAMSEY frowningly studied the ceremonial phrases of an engraved card which had just been delivered at his door:

“Mr. Heywood Achison requests the pleasure of the company of Mr. Wallace Ramsey on Tuesday evening, January eighteenth, at nine o'clock. Music.”

Most people in New York would have hailed the receipt of that invitation with distinct gratification; but in Ramsey's mind it aroused only a puzzled conjecture and more than a little suspicion. He knew his Achison, and was therefore certain that some definite, yes, and dark motive had prompted this graceful, beckoning gesture across the gulf which separated them.

It appeared to him as fantastically improbable a circumstance as Napoleon's inviting the Duke of Wellington to a fête on the eve of Waterloo, or Clemenceau and the Kaiser lunching together the day before the last great German drive.

Something else struck him as odd. The invitations, as all the world knew had been out several days. This was not an ordinary party, but a musical event, the first of two evenings which Achison was giving to signalize the initial appearance in this country of the great Norwegian violinist Erland. Consequently, Achison must have been besieged with requests for cards: and yet he, Ramsey, the most unlikely person in the world to be so favored, was included among the guests for the première

There was obviously no mistake about it. His name was filled in upon the card in Achison's own bold, flowing hand. Ramsey discerned, however, beneath the polite formality of his invitation a challenge. It was Achison's silken way of daring him to be present; and Ramsey was temperamentally incapable of not taking him up. So with tightened lips he wrote his acceptance, wondering the while what new move Achison was planning in the battle of wits that went on between them.

These were not medieval times, he told himself: there was no question of poisoned fruit or the deadly draught at the banquet. Customs change with costumes, and such methods do not accord with 1921 evening-clothes But the heart of man remains unchanged. He never doubted Achison's purpose effectually to silence the adversary who like a hound of Destiny was forever snapping at his heels; and on his own part, Ramsey's determination to strip the other of his various masquerades and show him to the world as an astute and accomplished crook was as sternly inexorable.

Moreover the deadlock situation between these two had recently become complicated by the infusion of a new element—new, and yet the same old one which from the beginning of time has served to arouse fresh antagonisms and stir ancient enmities to fever heat—a woman

Rose Edgewater had drifted into the lives of Achison and Ramsey as lightly as thistledown, and had established herself with a permanence not usually associated with anything so ethereal. Achison posed as a sort of guardian to her. The invalid aunt with whom she lived was a client of his, and at a time when their fortunes were at an extremely low ebb, he had come to the rescue and by his legal ingenuity had recovered for them a sum of money which enabled them to live in comfort. He had also been the first to recognize the girl's unusual musical gifts; she was a violinist, and he had given her invaluable advice and had aided her in securing the best instruction.

Ramsey, on his side, adopted no pose. He had fallen deeply in love with Rose Edgewater, and he made no secret of it.

Thus the affair stood on the night of Achison's party. Ramsey's expression was half ironical and half wary as he passed through several rooms, where every piece of furniture, every picture or vase was a museum treasure, and where little groups of people stood about examining, exclaiming, admiring.

Achison was receiving in the ballroom, which had been transformed for the occasion into a concert-hall. There were rows and rows of chairs which were being rapidly filled with what one of the high-brow ladies present described as the “cognoscenti.”

The cognoscenti, Ramsey soon saw, were in the mass somewhat drab and austere, and their claims to distinction did not include those of either physical beauty or smart apparel.

In contrast, Achison, standing just inside the wide entrance, with his broad, handsome face and the sweep of gray hair across his brow, his attire absolutely correct to the last detail, satisfied all the requirements of a celebrity. He was the famous lawyer, the patron of the arts, the fastidious bon-vivant, all merged for the moment into the gracious and graceful host extending a delightful welcome to his guests.

Behind him, at the end of the room, a platform had been erected. It was covered with a Persian rug, and had nothing else on it but a tall, mahogany cabinet for sheet-music. In front of the platform and a few feet away from it was a concert piano at which an accompanist was already sitting.

As Ramsey paused to take the hand which Achison held out to him and murmured a word or two of conventional greeting, a musical critic who stood near called out to him.

“Hello, Ramsey! I'll bet you're going to ask Achison if he can put you on to the trail of that Strad' you're hunting for.” He chuckled, as if at a good joke. “Save your breath, my boy. Our friend here was naturally one of the first persons I went to in your behalf; and like all the rest, he says there's practically no such thing out of close captivity.”

Of all Achison's various smiles, the one Ramsey hated most began now with a superior, patronizing gleam in the eyes and spread to the wide, oratorical mouth, contempt barely suppressed.

“Fascinating pursuit, gathering rare musical instruments,” he commented blandly. “Are you collecting generally, Ramsey, or do you specialize only in violins?”

There was a faint emphasis on the question, a mocking inflection which made Ramsey aware that the lawyer had no illusions as to the purpose of his quest, but was satisfied that the violin was sought as a present for Rose Edgewater.

“Oh, he's modest. Just a single Strad' is all he's set his heart on.” The critic was still chuckling, unstabbed by the icy dagger of Ramsey's glance. “Any little thing like the roc's egg or the fountain of eternal youth doesn't interest him at all—does it, old dear?”

Ramsey didn't trouble to answer, but turned sharply away, with a muttered: “Silly ass!”

What had ever led him to consult that fool, anyhow—a fellow who had no more sense than to go blatting to Achison, the last person in the world he would have know of his intention?

Still scowling, he made his way down through the chairs, looking right and left for Rose. And his face quickly cleared, for almost at once he saw her. Who could miss her indeed? She was like a rare and fragile vase surrounded by earthenware—a star of youth and loveliness, he thought, with an unwonted flight of fancy among all these serious thinkers.

There was a vacant chair beside hers, and he made haste to take it, asking perfunctorily if it belonged to anyone

“It's Mr. Achison's,” she said, “but he wont [sic] want it until everyone has arrived.”

“I'm praying they'll all be late, then. Tell me,”—he turned to her—“isn't the fact that a rank outsider in music like myself has received one of these priceless invitations due entirely to you? The others, I know were sent out nearly a week before I got mine. I suppose if I had any decent pride I wouldn't have come; but—I knew that you were to be here.”

She flushed a little and quickly dropped her eyes. “There you go with that absurd idea that Mr. Achison doesn't like you. I can always see you stiffen up whenever his name is mentioned. Why?” She looked at him reproachfully. “He is so wonderful. He has been like a fairy godfather to me.”

“I fully agree with you, said Ramsey. “He is a very remarkable person. Perhaps I am jealous of him.”

The color flamed more brightly in her cheeks, and she moved her hands restlessly; but she held to the subject she had started.

“Yes: you admit his gifts but you don't like him. He is your Doctor Fell. Well, I suppose one can help those antipathies. But in this case you wrong him; I did not ask him to invite you I will tell you exactly how it came about.

“The other day I happened to run into him just coming out of Egyptian Hall, that place on Sixth Avenue, you know, where they exhibit the latest devices for magician and sleight-of-hand performers; and knowing that he was arranging the program for this evening, I asked him he was engaging a prestidigitator or something of sort.

“He said no, that he often dropped in there when he had a spare hour, because he had started out in life himself as a juggler and had never lost his interest in that sort thing.”

Ramsey nodded acquiescently; there was little about Achison's career or activities with which he was not conversant.

“Well, we walked along a block or so together,” she continued. “He kept laughing at my suggestion of a vaudeville attraction in connection with a great musician like Erland; I hardly ever saw him in such high good humor. 'Next thing you'll be proposing that I hire a troupe of trained monkeys,' he said.

“Then suddenly and without any prompting on my part, he turned to me. 'By the way,' he said, 'speaking of the affair for Tuesday night, do you think your friend Ramsey will be offended at receiving an eleventh-hour invitation? I had his name down on my original list, and I only discovered this morning that by some oversight the card had not been sent.'

“There.” she concluded triumphantly, “you see how baseless your suspicions were!”

Ramsey acknowledged his error with proper humility—outwardly, at least. Of what use to tell her that his doubts of Achison and all his works went back a good deal farther than the present incident, and were founded on the rock of many past experiences and encounters? Her story seemed to remove any suggestion of especial significance to the matter of his invitation, and still he found himself unable to shake off the premonition that there was danger in the air—indeed, his impulse to keep on guard every moment he was in that house was strengthened rather than diminished.

No justification for this feeling developed, however; so far as he was able to discern, the evening passed absolutely without contretemps. The concert began and progressed brilliantly. A famous pianist played: a great soprano from the Metropolitan sang; and then Erland drew an enchanted bow across his violin.

There were storms of applause to which the artist graciously responded, and the insistent demands of the audience might have continued all night if Achison had not gone forward laughingly and interfered. He took Erland's violin from him, closed it in its case, which lay on the music cabinet, and then brought the Norwegian down to meet his enthusiastic admirers.

Supper was served presently; and while the guests were deserting the concert-hall for the dining-room, Ramsey loitered just outside the entrance. hoping for another opportunity to speak with Rose. But when she came out, it was with Achison and Erland at her side.

As they passed—they were the last to leave the hall—Achison was evidently reassuring the violinist against any apprehensions in leaving his instrument behind.

“You may feel perfectly secure, Herr Erland. That man,”—indicating a tall fellow in evening clothes—“has orders not to quit the room, and he will see that no one approaches near enough to lay a finger on it.”

“Ah, you are most considerate,” Erland returned in excellent English. “My violins, especially that one, are worth to me their weight in diamonds and rubies. They are my interpreters.”

They moved on into the dining-room; and Ramsey, watching, saw Rose seated between Erland and Achison. Small chance of any further word with her; so, since he had no desire to sit below the salt himself and merely see her monopolized by others, he slipped inconspicuously away, still puzzling vainly over the reason for his invitation.

And yet, engrossing as was any question concerned with Achison to him, his thoughts tonight were more inclined to dwell upon the entertainment he had just left than upon the giver of it or his subtleties. Ramsey was no connoisseur of music; his tastes in that direction did not range much higher than the ordinary whistled melody of the streets; but he could not be insensible to the audible magic which the great virtuoso had drawn that evening from his violin.

As the rich, resonant strains vibrated through the hall, he had seen Rose's eyes fasten covetously upon the instrument tucked under Erland's chin. Ah, if he could only secure a violin like that for her! He could imagine what such a possession would mean to her with her musical soul, how it would serve to incite and inspire her.

Through the death of an old aunt, Ramsey had recently come into a considerable legacy, and his first impulse on hearing of it was to squander the whole amount recklessly on rare and beautiful gifts for Rose. But how could a man desperately in love with a girl and yet not sure of her feeling for him, indulge in such expansive generosity? Convention stood in the way. He could, bowing to the decrees of that high and mighty goddess, present the lady of his heart with bales of flowers, tons of books, pyramids of candy. On special Christmas or birthdays, he might offer some rare lace, but nothing further—not even the tiniest jewel. Rose cared little for jewels, anyway.

Then came the idea of a violin. It struck him as a particularly happy thought. A violin was a comparatively. inconspicuous object, something that convention might easily overlook. And as a gift, it had a certain impersonal flavor; it might be regarded more as a tribute to her musical genius than as something conferred upon herself. There was also the chance of her not dreaming how much money he had spent for it, and he could drop a discreet word or two about picking it up for a song in case Achison chose to enlighten her.

But when he came to inquire regarding violins, and to seek for something he considered suitable for her, he found that in these dreams of his he had been counting his chickens before they were hatched. In spite of indefatigable searching, he had been unable even to get within sight of a Stradivarius, for that was the sort of instrument he had set his heart upon giving her.

That is, he had failed to get within sight of one until tonight; and the sight, or rather the hearing of it, had more than ever confirmed him in his choice. He wondered if Erland could possibly be tempted to part with— But no; that was out of the question. The Norwegian's own words to Achison had definitely settled any idea of that sort.

He must simply keep on with his quest, refusing to be dashed by the apparent hopelessness of it, for it was characteristic of Ramsey, in spite of his easy, pliant manner, that he never let go of any purpose to which he had set himself until it was accomplished.....

The realization in this case was far more imminent than he could possibly have imagined; for the very next morning, while he was still at breakfast, there came a ring at his door, and opening it himself, he found standing at the threshold a small, dingy man with a bulky package in his arms which he handled with great care.

“Mr. Ramsey?” the stranger asked with a little strong foreign accent, and then as Wallace nodded: “I hear that you have look everywhere for a fine violin. I,”—he flashed his teeth in what was meant to  be an ingratiating smile, touched his chest with his forefinger, and then pointed dramatically to his parcel. “I have brought him to you.”

“Come in.” Ramsey promptly threw open the door and ushered the visitor into his study. “Now, let's see what you have.”

With immense importance the other laid his parcel on the table, and opening it, disclosed a metal-bound case from which he drew a dark old violin.

“It is a Stradivari.” he said with real reverence in his voice, “Look, there is the label.”

Ramsey had so slight a knowledge of technicalities that he was scarcely able to distinguish between an ordinary fiddle and a good violin: and yet as he bent over the instrument the stranger had brought, he felt the thrill we all experience when we gaze upon some masterpiece of craftsmanship. It is incomparable and therefore inimitable.

“Listen to the tone of it,” cried the other, who gave his name as Pardus; and catching up the bow, he played a few bars. As the rich notes vibrated through the room, Ramsey's excitement increased.

To conceal his eagerness he lighted a cigarette and pretended to examine the violin more critically.

“I will have to know something more about this,” he said. “Why are you willing to sell? Also how did the violin come into your possession?”

“It belonged to my father, God rest his soul!” Pardus made the sign of the cross. “In his youth he looked to have a career,”—drawing down his mouth and throwing out his hands with a fatalistic gesture—“but it was not to be. A noble lord in our country who was pleased with his playing and thought he would be a great artist gave him the violin, and my father treasured it ail his life as if it was of gold. He had much trouble in his life, his hopes were disappointed, drink ruined him; but he would never part with his Stradivari.

“He tried to make a musician of me, but I had no gift and I had seen enough of that life. Not for me! I am a business man.”

“But this drop in prices!” He shook his head plaintively, and deflated like a pricked balloon. “Would you believe me, Mister, I take a loss on my stock of over sixty percent; and my creditors, they got no mercy. Unless I sell the Stradivari, I go under.”

“H'm!” Ramsey tried to appear indifferent. “How much do you want for it?”

Pardus' greedy, furtive eyes read his questioner in one swift glance, and then swept off toward the window.

“Well, I'll tell you; for cash, I let it go for nothing.” He spread out his hands. “Absolutely nothing! I have no time to run here, there, and wait days, maybe months, until some rich man makes up his mind whether he wants it or not. Unless I got the money by tomorrow, my store will close. So I give you a grand bargain. It is a tragedy; but what can I do? Take the violin,” he thrust it into Ramsey's hands, “for fifteen thousand, cash down.”

Wallace gave an involuntary start. If this little wretch was speaking the truth and the instrument really was a genuine Stradivarius, it was a bargain indeed. He was tempted to snap it up at once, but forced himself to temporize.

“How did you know that I wanted a violin?”

“A customer of mine, a young man who works for one of the big dealers, told me that you had been looking for one, and gave me your address. I suppose,”—sighing heavily—“he will want a commission out of me for doing it.”

“No need to worry about that until the sale is settled,” advised Ramsey. “Of course, before I say that I'll take it, I shall have to have its authenticity verified. I mean,”—seeing that the other looked bewildered,—“I shall have to make certain that it is genuine, a real Stradivarius.”

“Oh, sure,” agreed Pardus; then suddenly beaming, and showing the full double rows of his discolored teeth: “It is already sold, and my business is saved!” His swift exuberance was so great that Ramsey feared for a moment the fellow was going to embrace him, and quickly put the table between them.

“There is a violinist here in the house,” he suggested, “whose judgment I am willing to trust. I shall want to consult him, and perhaps others. He will probably be at home now, and if you will bring the violin, we can go right up and see him.”

Pardus hesitated. “I should not leave my store for so long: there is no one to wait on customers but the little boy. Why not leave the violin with you?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I am not afraid. Then when you have satisfied yourself that it is, as I say, a genuine Stradivari, you can bring the money down to my place. Here, I give you the address.”

He drew a dirty card out of his pocket and handing it over, backed bobbing and grinning out of the room.

EFT alone, Ramsey lost no time in placing his treasure-trove into its case, and hurrying with it to the apartment of the violinist two floors above.

The latter, routed out of bed, was at first inclined to be skeptical, even facetious, when he learned the purpose of his neighbor's early call; but his manner abruptly changed at the first sight of the instrument itself.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “It's incredible; and yet, by Jove, it's true!”

He went over the violin carefully, scrutinizing every inch of it, his comments becoming more and more voluble and ecstatic.

“The label, of course, might be a clever piece of forgery,” he muttered as he carried it over to the light. “But—look!”

The morning sun which was pouring through the windows brought out the mellow, fiery glow of that magical varnish whose composition is a lost secret. The musician pointed out, too, the peculiarities of shape, the marvelous, unduplicated Stradivarius bridge. “There is no question about it,” he declared finally. “The gods have sent you a gift straight from heaven. If only such a chance had come to me! But then,”—coming down to earth,—“where would I ever have laid my hands on fifteen thousand dollars.”

“You are sure it is the real thing?” insisted Ramsey.

“Positively. I have made a study of good violins, and I would stake my life on the genuineness of this one. See, here is a crest painted on it, probably that of some former owner. It would be interesting to follow up the old thing's history.”

So unqualified was the verdict that Ramsey felt it would be merely a waste of time to investigate farther; and consequently, after a visit to the bank, took a taxi to the address which Pardus had furnished him.

The “store” proved to be a dank, black little hole on one of the sordid streets of the lower East Side, containing a rather scanty stock of foreign crockery, embroideries, tarnished metal ornaments and similar junk of various descriptions.

ARDUS rushed out of the door to meet him, and greeted Ramsey as effusively as if he had been a long-lost brother. His grin widened to its utmost expansion when Ramsey told him he was ready to conclude the sale, and counted out the fresh, crackling bank-notes into his grimy, clutching fingers.

But had Wallace been less absorbed, he could hardly have failed to notice a covert, satiric gleam which crept into the little man's eyes when the transaction was closed.

“You are one of the fortunate of the earth, Mr. Ramsey.” There was a note of underlying mockery in his voice. “You are the owner of a Stradivari.”

Ramsey, however, although he had paid for the violin, was very far from considering himself its real owner, and was consumed with an eager anxiety to deliver it to the person for whom it was intended. Heedless, therefore, of any change in Pardus manner, he dragged himself away from the shopkeeper's congratulations, and stopping his taxi at the first public telephone-booth, called up Rose Edgewater.

Adopting as casual a tone as he could manage, he asked her if she would be at home that afternoon; a glance at his watch told him it was then almost one o'clock. Learning that she would be in, he then wondered if he would be overbold to ask to see her alone; there was a matter on which he particularly wanted her opinion.

“I'm flattered,” she answered; “no one ever thinks my opinion worth having. You must tell me all about it over a cup of tea and I will see that everyone else is rigorously barred out.”

A little before five he was at her door, the violin in a long box under his arm, and a moment later he was holding her hand.

“It looks like a summer garden in here,” he said, glancing about at the quantity of flowers in the charming room.

“Yes; Mr. Achison sent a whole conservatory here this morning. My aunt says the apartment smells like a church on Easter Sunday. Still,”—with a glance at the box which he had laid on the piano,—“there is always room for more flowers.”

“Oh, don't try to put me at my ease,” he laughed, “with the idea that I am bringing coals to Newcastle. There are no flowers in that box.”

“Then what is it?”

“Wait, and see,” he returned as he began to untie the strings “I told you I wanted your opinion on something, didn't I?”

By this time her curiosity was aroused. “Your fingers are all thumbs,” she said impatiently. “Here, let me open it?”

He waved her away, prolonging his task for the delight of tantalizing her; but at last lifted off the lid of the box, and drew out the metal-bound case within.

“Why, it is a violin!” she exclaimed; then leaping to a swift conclusion: “You have been learning to play, and never told me?”

“Not I! I couldn't play a note, if my life depended on it: neither do I want to learn. It is enough, if you will let me listen to you now and then.” He held out the violin to her. “Try it wont you?”

She took it up slowly, reverently, her fingers caressing it; she knew from the very thrum of the strings as she tuned it that this was no ordinary violin. Then as she began to play, a tremor ran over her whole body. She stopped, and looked at him with a lambent light in her eyes.

“Oh,” she breathed, “where did you ever find anything like this?”

“I found it for you. I've been looking and looking for one worthy of you; and then this one came to me, practically out of the clouds. It is an honest-to-goodness Stradivarius; really it is.”

“A Stradivarius? Oh, but I couldn't! I am only a tyro, and no one but a master should play on a Strad. I couldn't I couldn't.”

“You can and you will,” he retorted. “Otherwise, I swear I'll smash it into bits and throw it on the ash-heap for the first garbage-picker that comes along.”

At so blasphemous a threat she threw her arms defensively about the violin and hugged it to her breast.

“Don't! Don't say a thing like that. I will keep it for you at least. I'll hold it as a trust; and you shall have it back whenever you want it, although I don't really know that I would be justified in returning it to anyone who could utter such an awful sacrilege.”

“I would say worse things than that to make you keep it.”

“Oh, Wallace!” She laid the instrument down and held out both her hands to him; her eyes were swimming, but there was a wavering, adorable smile on her lips. “How sweet of you to think of such a gift for me!”

“Dear Rose, if you only knew what it means to me to add in any way to your happiness!” He broke off sharply, and dropped her hands; he would be a cad to take advantage of her gratitude, of her emotional delight in his offering. “Play for me,” he said. “I will sit here in the dusk, and listen and dream.”

For half an hour she played, tremulously at first, and then more surely. And when he went home, her soft ecstasies over his gift were still singing in his ears.

HE next morning he was made happier still by an early telephone call from her, asking him if he would come to her aunt's apartment at eleven o'clock. There would be others there, she said, to pass judgment on her talent, and she wanted his uncritical belief in her to give her confidence.

The other guests, Achison and Erland, were already on hand when he reached the house. He could see that Rose was nervous as she came forward to greet him; and her hand, as he took it, was icy cold.

“I am going to play for Herr Erland,” she whispered to him. “Think what it means to me! And wasn't it wonderful of Mr. Achison to arrange for it! He never told me until last night, because he couldn't be certain of Erland; these artists are so capricious. I was simply overwhelmed by the suddenness of it, and I don't believe I could ever have brought myself to say yes, if it had not been for your violin. That gave me the courage to try.”

Achison greeted Wallace with his usual suavity, but Erland was barely civil. Considering all women violinists as so many pests, he plainly regarded the occasion as an ordeal and acted like a sulky child.

“Let us get on,” he growled impatiently. “Let us get on.”

Rose nodded to the accompanist to begin, and picking up the violin, lifted it to her chin.

As she did so, Ramsey, watching Erland, saw a remarkable change come over the latter. His lounging body became tense; he leaned forward, alert as a dog that has just struck a scent. He waited until Rose drew her bow across the strings in a long, opening note; then he leaped to his feet.

“Stop!” he ordered harshly. “Give me that violin!”

He almost snatched it from her.

“Mine!” he cried. “I would know it anywhere. Look!” He turned to Achison. “They have not even taken the trouble to remove the crest.”

IS pale eyes under their heavy, yellowish-gray eyebrows, were full of lightnings as he glared at Rose.

“How, Miss,” he demanded sternly, “did this come into your possession?” He repeated the question, as unable to answer, she stared at him in stunned bewilderment.

She swallowed hard once or twice. “It—it was given to me.” Her voice was almost inaudible. She looked imploringly at Achison. “Do tell him there is some mistake.”

Achison shook his head in a grave way.

“By whom was the violin given to you, Rose? We must get at the bottom of this; it is a serious matter.”

“By me.” Ramsey started up, recovering from the astonishment into which he had been plunged by Erland's announcement. “I gave it—” He caught at the loophole which she herself had furnished him. “That is, I loaned it to Miss Edgewater. The instrument is mine. I bought it yesterday.”

“I am afraid, then, Mr. Ramsey,” said Achison in tones whose regret was translated in Ramsey's ears to satisfaction, “that you have been the no-doubt innocent purchaser of stolen goods. This, it seems to me, is a matter that will require a pretty thorough investigation.”

At something in his voice Ramsey was seized with a flashing intuition—even more, a confident certainty that this was all a subtle plan of Achison's to involve and ruin him. His old antagonist had set a trap for him; and he, Ramsey, who imagined himself so constantly on guard, had walked blindly into it. Just how it had been accomplished he was at the moment unable to tell; but he knew that he must struggle with all his wits, if he was to extricate himself.

“Do you mean to say that you have recently lost a Stradivarius violin?” He turned to Erland. “I have seen no report of it in the papers.”

“That was by the advice of my managers and my lawyer.” He indicated Achison. “It might have had an unfortunate psychological effect on my audiences, since it is known that when I play in public this Stradivarius is my favorite instrument. The police, however, are working on the case.”

“May I ask when and under what circumstances your violin was taken?”

“Ah!” Erland shrugged his shoulders “That is a hard question to answer. When I finished playing at Mr. Achison's entertainment, I put it in the case, and on his assurance that it would be perfectly safe, went with him to supper, leaving it in the room where I had given the concert There was a man on guard, a detective, I am informed, although he was in evening-dress. I did not look at the violin when I left Mr. Achison's, but carrying the closed case in my arms, was driven to my hotel. I did not open the case until an hour or so later, when I was preparing for bed. Then I discovered my loss, and telephoned to Mr. Achison at once.”

“It cost me a sleepless night,” Achison spoke grimly. “In fact, two of them for I spent most of last night also trying to puzzle out how the theft could possibly have occurred. And I must confess that I am still utterly at sea.

“Lieutenant Dickson, the man I from headquarters for the evening, is, I believe, absolutely trustworthy; and he insists that no one was near the music-cabinet on which the violin was left, or even entered the room while he was in charge. Then Herr Erland tells me that after getting home, the case was practically never out from under his eye. He left his sitting-room, where it was, to go into his bedroom on one or two occasions; but neither time was he away for more than three or four minutes, and the door of his suite was securely locked; the windows look out upon a sheer wall. Moreover there were several other valuable violins in the room more easy of access than this one. Granted that a thief might have been concealed in the suite, and have made use of his opportunity during one of Herr Erland's brief absences, why should he have gone to the time and trouble of opening a case taking out its instrument and closing the case again, when the other treasures of almost equal worth were his for the mere seizing?

“In view of all the circumstances,”—Achison's face darkened,—“I am forced to the unwelcome conclusion that the larceny must have been committed at my house, and that Dickson was either bribed or bamboozled by one of my guests who had a strong enough motive to impel him to take a desperate chance.

“So, Mr. Ramsey, I think you will see how necessary it is for us to have a detailed account of just how this violin was—shall I say?—acquired by you?”

Wallace had listened impassively to this somewhat lengthy exposition, but his wits had been by no means idle.

The fact that Achison had stressed the likelihood of the theft having been committed at his own house did not deceive him as to its being probably true. That was the very sort of aniseed bag that the wily lawyer would draw across the trail with the idea that he, Ramsey, suspecting a ruse, would be diverted to an investigation of the circumstances at the hotel.

And it would be futile to indulge in any accusations, even such covert thrusts as Achison was using toward him. His cue was manifestly to play the rather thick badly puzzled victim of circumstances.

So he gave a straightforward account of the manner in which the violin had come into his hands, avoiding anything in the way of surmises or deductions.

Erland listened to the story with obvious incredulity. Achison had the judicial air of weighing every word, while subtly conveying the impression that he found it wanting. Rose listened intently, but Ramsey found it impossible to tell from her expression whether she believed him or not.

“It should not be difficult to locate this—er—Pardus,” commented Achison. “Has he a telephone? You do not know?” He raised his brows.

A suspicion that had been slowly forming in Wallace's mind became assurance. The shop that he had visited was a mere theatrical setting; Pardus, having obtained the fifteen thousand dollars, and having palmed off the violin upon his gullible dupe, had simply decamped. He began to see now how the matter had been arranged. Unexpectedly confronted by the real owner of the violin, and forced to a defense, his story about Pardus would be made to appear as a weak invention of the moment to cover up his tracks.

He bit his tongue to keep back an exclamation of chagrin.

“I fancy,” he sad, forcing himself to meet the gloating gleam in Achison's eyes, “that if this is really Herr Erland's stolen instrument as you claim, the locating of Pardus will prove quite a job. He would hardly sit quietly down to await reprisals. however, we can probably soon satisfy ourselves on that score by calling up some one in the neighborhood.”

T did not take long to put this suggestion into effect. As Wallace had expected, the word came back that the shop at the number designated had been fitted up only a few days before, and had been vacated the previous afternoon. No one in the vicinity knew anything about the late proprietor, or where he had gone.

“Have you any witnesses who could testify as to this man's visit to you?” asked Achison. The sneer in his tone was now unconcealed.

“Possibly the telephone-girl may have noticed him, or one of the other employees.” Ramsey shrugged his shoulders. He was confident, though, that Pardus, acting under Achison's instructions, would have managed his entrance and exit too cleverly for that.

“However,” he continued curtly, “questions of that sort can wait for later investigation. What we want to find out now is just how and when the violin was taken.”

“I have my Stradivarius back,” Erland broke in, rising. “That is all I care for. I leave the matter in your capable hands, Mr. Achison.”

He bowed to the lawyer and to Rose, completely ignoring Ramsey, and stepping over to the piano, started to put the violin in its case.

“Pardon me, Herr Erland.” Rose laid a detaining hand upon the case. “This instrument has been left in my charge. I cannot allow you to take it from the house.”

There was a little quaver in her voice at her hardihood in thus defying the great musician; but her chin was up—there could be no doubting the firmness of her  determination.

The Norwegian flung back his yellow mane with an indignant gesture.

“But the violin is mine!” he protested angrily.

“That is as it may be,” she broke in upon his excited asseverations. “I have no question of your good faith in the matter, Herr Erland. But anybody could come in here and make the same claim, and mistakes have been known to happen.”

“But this is sheer folly, Rose.” Achison stepped forward. “Herr Erland knows his violin, of course. He positively identifies it. Believe me, there isn't a chance of any liability on your part in permitting him to take it.”

She turned and faced him.

“Mr. Achison, are you trying to tell me,” she said quietly, “that I am justified in turning over property left in my care on no more than some one's bare assertion of ownership? Mr. Ramsey has explained to you how he bought the violin; and I believe his story implicitly. He may have been imposed upon—the violin may have been stolen; but until he and I are satisfied of that fact by legal proof, I shall refuse to give it up.”

AMSEY felt like shouting in his exultation. Against the weight of appearances, she still had faith in him.

Achison, on the other hand, was plainly nettled at her opposition

“Are you aware, Rose,” he warned impatiently, “that this unreasonable attitude is apt to implicate you in—”

“Hold on, there!” Ramsey interrupted sharply. “No threats, please. You know that Miss Edgewater is perfectly right in her contention; but in order to relieve her of any responsibility in the premises,  I will assert my own title.”

He moved over to her, and took the violin from her hands.

“You said that I could have it when I wanted it. Well, I want it now; and at the same time I want to ask your forgiveness and have you believe that I shall never rest until I discover what is at the bottom of all this—why I and, through me, you, have been let in for such a mess.”

The virtuoso, as he saw his beloved Stradivarius thus appropriated, seemed about to strangle. Stuttering expostulations, half in English, half in Norwegian, he appealed to Achison.

“Are you going to let him have my violin—this thief? Is there no law then in the accursed country? Why do you not call a policeman and have him arrested?”

“There is no need to get excited, Herr Erland,” Wallace urged pacifically. “I have no designs upon your precious violin, for I haven't the slightest doubt that it is your property. But you must understand that I am involved to the tune of fifteen thousand dollars in this transaction, not to speak of other considerations possibly more weighty. Therefore, if I stand temporarily upon my de facto ownership, it is simply to try and clear things up a bit more expeditiously, and also to induce you to answer a few questions.

“I want to know in minute detail everything that occurred in the interim between your arrival at the hotel after the concert at Mr. Achison's and your discovery that the violin was missing.”

Erland, whose first anguished solicitude had been somewhat quieted by Wallace's assurance, but who was still manifestly uneasy, sulkily submitted to the inquiry

Unable to keep still, though, he paced nervously up and down the floor while he snapped out his answers to Wallace's questions; and without bothering to ask Rose's permission, lighted cigarette after cigarette, only to toss them away after a few puffs.

“Ach!” he groaned, turning to Achison as he flung the fifth one into the ash-receiver which Rose had placed on the table. “I shall be unable to play at that second concert of yours tonight. You will have to call it off. My nerves are all in a jangle from this foolishness.

“Let us finish.” He swung around petulantly to Ramsey again. “Do you want to keep me here all day with your silly questioning? What more do you wish to ask?”

But Wallace did not answer at once. His eyes were fixed thoughtfully upon the ash-receiver. It was one of those patent contrivances so made as to leave no unsightly stubs exposed or gray ashes to be blown about, with a flat tray on top swinging so easily on a central pivot as to deposit in a bowl underneath anything dropped upon it.

It was the prompt disappearance of Erland's cigarette as he flung it down, and the return of the swinging tray to an equilibrium, that had caught Wallace's attention and had given him a suggestion he could not help feeling was either a touch of insanity or a direct inspiration.

He leaned forward as if deliberating and preoccupiedly tapped with his fingers on the ash-receiver, causing the tray to make two or three complete revolutions

“I think,” he said slowly, “that Herr Erland is right. It is a pure waste of time to conduct the investigation in this way. We are getting nowhere. What we want to do is to go carefully over every foot of the ground. If we then fail to unearth anything that tends to throw light on the mystery, I am willing to turn the violin over to Herr Erland, and let the affair be investigated through the ordinary channels.”

T this offer Erland, who had been preparing to remonstrate strenuously at what appeared mere temporizing, reconsidered and seconded the proposal.

“Suppose, then,”—Ramsey looked to Achison,—“we start in at your place? Since you are giving the second of your entertainments this evening, I presume that everything has been left just as it was?”

Was there a momentary flicker of hesitation in the lawyer's expression? If so, it was gone so quickly that Ramsey could not be certain.

“A la Sherlock Holmes, eh?” He smiled with bland contempt. “You want to subject my poor abode to the magnifying glass? Well—if you think if worth your while. Nothing has been touched, except for the ordinary dusting and sweeping.”

HAT Achison's statement was absolutely correct they found on their arrival. The rows of chairs still stretched across the ballroom; the platform, with its Persian rug and music cabinet as its sole furnishings, stood unchanged; the piano was out in front and occupied the same position.

Nor could Ramsey, distrustful though he was of Achison, suspect that there had been any double-dealing practiced on them. From the moment that he had proposed coming here, he had been on the alert to detect and thwart some clever  move whereby the lawyer might attempt  to send advance tidings of their visit. But Achison had offered no plausible excuse to use the telephone; he had trumped up no errand on which to send his chauffeur, but had used his own car to transport them across town; he had made no gesture or movement which could be construed as a signal; and on reaching the house, he led the way at once without hesitation or delay to the ballroom. Either he was supremely conscious of his innocence, or else audaciously sure of his ground.

“Well, here we are,” he said mockingly as he stood aside at the ballroom door for Rose and the two men to enter—for although Rose had been inclined to remain at home, she had yielded to Wallace's urgent request that she accompany them.

“Here we are,” repeated Achison. “I hold my breath to await the workings of the master-mind.”

Ramsey paid no heed to the light gibe, conscious though he was that underneath it rang a note of disdainful challenge. but turned to Erland.

“I want to reconstruct the scene as it appeared to the detective on duty that night,” he said, “to see it as well as I can with his eyes. He took his station just about here, I think.” He moved over to a seat at the right of the entrance. “Now, if the rest of you will just move back to the line of the doorway, I guess we are 'all set.'

“Or wait a minute!” he exclaimed. starting up. “I am forgetting the most important feature—the violin.”

He hurried down the aisle to the platform, the instrument in its metal-bound case under his arm, and placed it on the top of the music cabinet well inside the decorative molding which ran around the  edge.

“That is about the way in which you left it, Herr Erland, isn't it?” he asked; and receiving an affirmative nod, returned to his seat.

For a minute the little group of onlookers waited. Two minutes passed, three; and nothing happened. Erland shifted his feet impatiently, and ran his hands up through his hair.

“What is the meaning of such nonsense?” he muttered irritably.

Wallace shook his head, and rising, walked slowly over to them.

“I have failed,” he confessed ruefully. “I thought, maybe, if I had the actual environment of the theft before me, I night puzzle out how it had been done. But I've got to admit it's beyond me, and I don't imagine I'd have any better success at the hotel.

“I can only stand by my bargain, Herr Erland. The violin is yours; and unless the police can do something, I shall simply have to stand up to the music.”

Before he had half-finished speaking, the virtuoso was on his way to recover his beloved Stradivarius. As he gained the platform, the ironic chuckle with which Achison greeted Ramsey's discomfiture and Rose's soft murmur of sympathy were drowned by a splutter of Norwegian.

“It sticks!” Erland turned a startled face toward the group in the doorway. “When I try to lift the case, it does not come. What is the matter?”

“Give it a jerk,” advised Ramsey. His dejected air had entirely vanished. “The magnet has probably gained strength and exerts a stiffer pull than Mr. Achison anticipated. I noticed it when I placed the violin on the cabinet. That suggested the idea to me of feigning defeat, so as to give you a personal demonstration.”

“The magnet?” Erland stared at him bewilderedly.

“Certainly. The one concealed in the turn-over top of the cabinet. But ask Mr. Achison to explain. He has a practical knowledge of the ingenious mechanism involved; mine is only theoretical.”

HE three of them turned toward Achison, to find his broad face crinkled up with laughter.

“Discovered!” he cried mirthfully. “Ramsey, I take off my hat to you. But how you guessed it passes my comprehension. I would have sworn that no one could fathom the secret of that cabinet.”

“It was merely the thing that I once warned you would prove your undoing,” returned Wallace grimly, “—the element of the unexpected. I have little cause for pride in this affair, Achison You trapped me as easily as you might a silly rabbit, and it was only by sheer luck that I managed to wriggle out of the toils. Had Herr Erland been a less tempestuous smoker, or had Miss Edgewater put out a different sort of an ash-tray, I would still be cudgeling my brains for a solution. But that ash-tray of hers gave me the idea.

“I was already convinced, you see, that the violin had been taken during the time that it lay on the music-cabinet after the concert: but how it had been done, I could not imagine. Everybody knows Lieutenant Dickson is one of the squarest as well as the shrewdest men on the force; and when he said that no one had approached the cabinet and that he had seen absolutely nothing to arouse his suspicion, I felt sure not only that he was speaking the truth, but that some very clever device had been employed.

“Then, as I say, Miss Edgewater's ash-receiver with the turn-over tray gave me a clue. The same principle could have been applied to the top of the music cabinet, and a small man concealed inside—Pardus, I suppose—could have turned it over, taken out the violin, and then have swung the empty case back to its original position. But to do this would require a moment or two, and in the meantime Dickson might have noticed the absence of the instrument; so I reasoned that there must have been a duplicate case fastened to the inside of the cabinet-top. Then, watching from a peephole until Dickson's attention was momentarily disengaged, Pardus would be enabled to swing over the top, work at his leisure, and at another propitious chance swing the top back again and latch it fast. How those two metal-bound violin cases could have been prevented from sliding or falling during the operation, I will confess, puzzled me for a time. But the natural answer to that, and, as it proved, a correct one, was the employment of a concealed magnet.

“It seemed a fantastic theory,” he concluded modestly, “but I had corroborative evidence in a way from the fact that Miss Edgewater had told me of meeting you a few days ago coming out of that Sixth Avenue establishment which makes a specialty of supplying trick furniture and other devices of the sort to magicians and sleight-of-hand performers.

“But what does it all mean?” demanded Erland dazedly. “I do not understand it.”

“It was a practical joke.” Again Achison chuckled. “And one which I think you will all agree was carried out rather successfully!”

Without a trace of confusion or the least decrease in his arrogant assurance, he met the astounded indignation in the musician's gaze and the stunned incredulity in Rose's.

“Of course,”—with one of his graceful, negligent gestures—“I did not intend that you, Ramsey, should be permanently out of pocket or permanently under suspicion. I used Pardus, as you have indicated, and paid him a small sum for his part in the affair. I intended to return your money to you when I explained the joke, which I meant to do at a little gathering of us four. But”—with a shrug of his wide shoulders—“you forestalled me, young fellow, me lad.”

“A joke!” Erland burst out furiously. “You call it a joke! Why, you stole my violin, my Stradivarius, and let me think I might never see it again.”

Rose laid a hand upon his trembling arm.

“But you have it back, Herr Erland,” she urged. “You have recovered it safe and unharmed.”

“True.” He yielded to her gentle persuasion. “There is cause for thankfulness; I have my Stradivarius safe.” He hugged the case to his breast. “I have said, young lady, that women cannot play the violin, but about you I am not so sure. You have temperament; you defied Erland to his face. Listen, I will give you a hearing, and at it you shall play on my Stradivarius.

“But as for you!” He flung out his hand scornfully toward Achison. “I will not play in your house—I will have nothing to do with you; I never want to see you again.”

HERE was a moment's pause after he had stalked from the room; then Rose stepped over and stood before Achison, looking up into his face.

“You didn't really do it? You wouldn't do such a thing?” Her voice was broken and passionately vehement. “If anyone else had told me, I would never have believed it.”

As Achison gazed down at her, his expression changed. There was pain in it, and perhaps regret. He seemed to forget that any other person was present except her and himself.

“After all,” he said slowly, “my explanations are due to you alone. For a long time this man Ramsey and I have been at odds. I have had strong reasons to distrust him; I have never believed him to be what he claimed, but something far more doubtful and dangerous. But I lacked the proof to establish my suspicions; he has been too cunning to be caught.

“It troubled me greatly, therefore, when I saw that the fellow had caught your interest, and recognized also that he meant to win you if he could. If he succeeded, it meant catastrophe to you: and to me it meant that spring would altogether vanish from my life. So I felt justified in playing this trick on him, regarding it as no more than a fair reprisal for the many annoyances he has caused me in the past by his intrusion into my affairs.”

His rich voice, which had so often thrilled the courtroom and had held juries spellbound, had never been so deeply movingly persuasive.

“Perhaps, Rose, some day when you have learned more of life, you may find it in your heart to forgive the man who tried to rescue you from a fate which I am sure can only mean misery. I cared and care nothing for Ramsey or Erland in the matter; I only want you to realize that this poor crude stratagem with the violin was a clumsy effort on my part to protect you from an unscrupulous adventurer. I hoped that in the revulsion of feeling his apparent theft would naturally cause, you would come to know your heart more truly and discover how transitory your interest in him really was.”

“Then you did it?” said Rose. “You did it, not even as a joke, but premeditatedly, out of the cruelty and wickedness of your heart.” She stepped back and caught fumblingly at Ramsey's hand.

“Take me home, Wallace,” she pleaded “I never want even to think of him again.”

AMSEY delayed for just one word.

“Don't think that this ends the matter, Achison,” he warned sternly. “I shall exact full recompense for all you have done—never fear.”

“No,” Rose clutched at his arm. “It must not go any farther. When he repays you your fifteen thousand dollars that must end it. Promise me, Wallace that you will do nothing more.”

She drew him toward the doorway, but Achison stayed them with a gesture. He made a half-step toward them, and then paused, as if musing deeply, abstractedly. Even when he spoke, his eyes were fixed beyond them, as if he saw neither of them.

“It may interest you to know that I am leaving the country in a few days,” he said in his casual way, “renouncing the active life and retiring from my profession—my two professions, you would probably say, Ramsey. I realize, you see, that I am growing old. Oh, well there are still music and books and pictures. Perhaps I may even turn to religion!”