‘Do you live here?’ he said.
‘What has that to do with you?’ retorted the fiddler.
‘That was my theme you played,’ said Christopher; ‘and if you live here, I know how you got hold of it. You have heard me play it.’
‘You live on the third floor?’ said the other in a changed tone.
‘Yes,’ said Christopher.
‘I’m in the attics, worse luck to me,’ said the street player. ‘Come into my room, if you don’t mind.’
He opened the door and went upstairs in the darkness, with the assured step of custom. Christopher, less used to the house, blundered slowly upwards after him.
‘Wait a minute,’ said the occupant of the attic, ‘and I’ll get a light.’
There was a little pause, and then came the splutter of a match. The pale glow of a single candle lit the room dimly. Christopher jumped at the sight of a third man in the room. No! There were but two people there. But where, then, was the man who had led him hither? Here before him was a merry-looking youngster of perhaps two-and-twenty, with a light brown moustache and eyes grey or blue, and close-cropped fair hair. The hirsute and uncombed genius of the street had vanished.
‘Don’t stare like that, sir,’ said the transformed comically. ‘Here are the props.’ He held up a ragged wig and beard.