When it was ended he rubbed his cheek softly against his old comrade, smoothed it once or twice with his hand, laid it tenderly back in its place on the table among the books, picked up Bob's violin from the chair, and gently closed the door behind him.
I looked at Bob. He was leaning against his desk, his eyes on the floor, his whole soul filled with the pathos of the melody. Suddenly he roused himself, sprang past me into the other room, and, calling to the man, ran out into the corridor.
"I couldn't catch him," he said in a dejected tone, coming back all out of breath, and dropping into a chair.
"What did you want to catch him for?" I asked; "he never robbed you?"
"Robbed me!" cried Bob, the tears starting to his eyes. "Robbed me! Good God, man! Couldn't you hear? I robbed him!"
We searched for him all that day—Bob with the violin under his arm, I with an apology.
But he was gone.
ACCORDING TO THE LAW
I