“It was played in this house by its composer before Frederic was born. It was played here on the night of his birth, as it had been played many times before. It was written by a man named Feverelli. Have you heard of him?”
“Never,” she murmured, and shrank, frightened by the deathlike pallor in the man's face, by the strange calm in his voice. The gates were being opened at last! She saw the thing that was to stalk forth. She would have closed her ears against the revelations it carried. “Mother will be worried if I am not at home———”
“Guido Feverelli. An Italian born in Hungary. Budapest, that was his home, but he professed to be a gipsy. Yes, he wrote the devilish thing. He played it a thousand times in that room down——— And now Frederic plays it, after all these years. It is his heritage. God, how I hate the thing! Ranjab! Where is the fellow? He must stop the accursed thing. He———”
“Mr Brood! Mr Brood!” cried Lydia, appalled. She began to edge toward the door.
By a mighty effort Brood regained control of himself. He sank into a chair, motioning for her to remain. The music had ceased abruptly.
“He will be here in a moment,” said Brood. “Don't go.”
They waited, listening. Ranjab entered the room; so noiseless was his approach that neither heard his footsteps.
“Well?” demanded Brood, looking beyond.
“Master Frederic begs a few minutes' time, sahib. He is putting down on paper the music, so that he may not forget. He writes the notes, sahib. Madame assists.”
Brood's shoulders sagged. His head was bent, but his gaze never left the face of the Hindu.