There was a long silence, broken only by the snapping of the logs in the fireplace and the almost inaudible footfalls of the Comte on the thick carpet. Then—
"He was his mother's son," said Pazzini.
"And mine," replied the other. "The last of the de Villersexel."
He paused abruptly by a little table, and took up a handful of splintered wood and tangled catgut.
"The toy that killed him," he added in a low voice, and hurled the fragments over Pazzini's shoulder into the embers. A thin tongue of flame caught at them as they fell, and broke into a brilliant blaze. Pazzini leaned forward suddenly and peered at the little conflagration.
"A violin," he said.
"A violin," echoed the Comte. "Think of dying for a violin!"
Pazzini made no reply. His eyes had met those of the portrait over the chimney—and he was smiling.
