The Yellow Face

by Fred M. White

Anstruther started as if some loathsome insect had stung him, then dropped sullenly back in his seat again. Bates turned to Serena and called her attention to the music.

"You seem to be in a communicative mood to-night," he said. "You need not fear any one for the future--Redgrave, or anybody else. I understand this last scoundrel is safe in the hands of the New York police, who were wanting him badly. Perhaps you can tell us the meaning of this extraordinary concert we are listening to. If you will be so good----"

Serena made no reply in words, but crossed to the side of the room opposite the door, and tugged at a volume which was the centre of a set of some classical dictionary. The volume came away quite easily in her hand, bringing other dummy books with it; and then the interested spectators saw that the books in question were no more than painted gauze. In the orifice disclosed by the stripping away of the sham, there appeared to be something that resembled a mouth of a great silver trumpet. This was partly plugged with a set of sensitive metal plates, which were evidently intended to act as a diaphragm for the record of musical expression.

"There you have the whole thing in a nutshell," Serena said, speaking quite naturally and quietly. "It is very ingenious, and yet, at the same time, it is not entirely original. It is an adaptation of the theatre-phone, in connection with a somewhat modified form of telephone. The recording instrument is situated in my husband's in the Great Metropolitan Hotel, and he has only to start his performance there, and the music sounds here quite as distinctly as if he were actually playing in this apartment. It seems exceedingly simple, now that you know how it is done."

It did seem simple, indeed, after listening to Serena's explanation. Bates turned to Anstruther, and asked him if he had anything to say; but the latter shook his head doggedly. He felt quite sure that the game was up, though he had no intention whatever of giving himself away. And yet, despite his danger, he was still the connoisseur enjoying the beautiful music made by Padini's violin. But to Claire, who had crept into the room unobserved, the whole thing was horrible and unnatural. Such lovely music as Padini was playing now was but a sorry accompaniment to all this vulgar crime and intrigue. The girl shuddered, and placed her hands over her ears as if to shut out the liquid melody.

"Oh, I wish it would stop," she said . "I do wish it would stop."

As if in answer to this prayer, the long, wailing notes died away, and the music fainted into nothingness. At the same time, Bates approached the mouth of the trumpet, and blew shrilly on his police whistle. There was a pause just for an instant, and then, to Jack's surprise, came the voice of Rigby clear and distinct.

"Is that you, Inspector Bates?" he asked. "We have just finished at this end. I am afraid there will be no more music to-night, as two of your detectives have most inhospitably insisted upon breaking up our concert, and escorting Signor Padini to Shannon Street police station. Shall I come round there, or will you come round here? Do you get my voice quite clearly?"

Bates replied grimly that he did. There was no occasion whatever to trouble Rigby any further to-night. Then the inspector turned to Anstruther, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"I think there is no reason to carry this farce any farther," he said. "You will be good enough to consider yourself my prisoner. Would you like to walk to Bow Street, or shall I call a cab?"