I grew cold, suddenly and horribly cold.
I could see nothing but a long French window glowing orange with light in the dark side of the house. I had heard nothing but some chords upon a grand piano.
But in that moment, though subconsciously, I knew.
I moved forward in little automatic jerks, listening with a dreadful fear, a sick certainty. The second before I came to the window and looked inside, it began.
Played by a master hand, I heard the opening notes of the Third Ballade of Chopin....
Another step, and, in the darkness myself, I could see into the room.
The musician was Mr. Vargus.
He had grown a little moustache, which was waxed at the ends, and a small black imperial on his chin. He was also much fatter than when I had seen him last, and he wore a smoking jacket of purple velvet. On one finger was a diamond ring, which flashed in the lamplight as the firm, powerful hands rose and fell.
There was a soft smile in the sly eyes as he interpreted the beautiful, fantastic music.
I am going to tell you what happened without comment or any reference whatever to my own feelings.