"He took his 'cello, and went off to the studio. I heard him shut the door."
"Show me the way," said Dr. Dick.
With his hand on the handle of the sitting-room door, he paused.
"I suppose you—er—feel quite able to forgive poor old Ronnie, now?" he asked.
The yearning anguish in Helen's eyes made answer enough.
They crossed the hall together; but—as they passed down the corridor leading to the studio—they stopped simultaneously, and their eyes sought one another in silent surprise and uncertainty.
The deep full tones of a 'cello, reached them where they stood; tones so rich, so plaintively sweet, so full of passion and melody, that, to the anxious listeners in the dimly lighted corridor, they gave the sense of something weird, something altogether uncanny in its power, unearthly in its beauty.
They each spoke at the same moment.
"It cannot be Ronnie," they said.
"It must be Ronnie," amended Helen. "There is no one else in the house."