Ingolby had listened to the music with a sense of being swayed by a wind which blew from all quarters of the compass at once. He loved music; it acted as a clearing-house to his mind; and he played the piano himself with the enthusiasm of a wilful amateur, who took liberties with every piece he essayed. There was something in this fellow’s playing which the great masters, such as Paganini, must have had. As the music ceased, he did not speak, but remained leaning against the great red-plush barber’s chair looking reflectively at the Romany. Berry, however, said to the still absorbed musician: “Where did you learn to play?”
The Romany started, and a flush crossed his face. “Everywhere,” he answered sullenly.
“You’ve got the thing Sarasate had,” Ingolby observed. “I only heard him play but once—in London years ago: but there’s the same something in it. I bought a fiddle of Sarasate. I’ve got it now.”
“Here in Lebanon?” The eyes of the Romany were burning. An idea had just come into his brain. Was it through his fiddling that he was going to find a way to deal with this Gorgio, who had come between him and his own?
“Only a week ago it came,” Ingolby replied. “They actually charged me Customs duty on it. I’d seen it advertised, and I made an offer and got it at last.”
“You have it here—at your house here?” asked old Berry in surprise.
“It’s the only place I’ve got. Did you think I’d put it in a museum? I can’t play it, but there it is for any one that can play. How would you like to try it?” he added to Jethro in a friendly tone. “I’d give a good deal to see it under your chin for an hour. Anyhow, I’d like to show it to you. Will you come?”
It was like him to bring matters to a head so quickly.
The Romany’s eyes glistened. “To play the Sarasate alone to you?” he asked.
“That’s it-at nine o’clock to-night, if you can.”