"M. Morgan. Benoni, the maestro, is ill and desires monsieur. It will be well if monsieur comes quickly.
"Annette."
He rang the bell hurriedly and the concierge appeared.
"This note," said Edward, speaking rapidly in French; "has it been long here?"
"Since yesterday. I sent it back, and they returned it. Monsieur is not disappointed, I trust." Edward shook his head and was seeking his hat and gloves.
"You recall my old friend, the maestro, who gave me the violin," he said, remembering Mary. "The note says he is very ill. It was sent yesterday. Make my excuses to your mother; I will not stay long. If I do not see you here, I will seek you over yonder in the park, where the band may be playing shortly; and then we will find a supper."
Walking rapidly to a cab stand he selected one with a promising horse, and gave directions. He was carried at a rapid rate into the region of the Quartier Latin and in a few moments found the maestro's home.
One or two persons were by him when he entered the room, and they turned and looked curiously. "Edward!" exclaimed the old man, lifting his sightless eyes toward the door; "there is but one who steps like that!"
Edward approached and took his hand. The sick man was sitting in his arm-chair, wrapped in his faded dressing-gown. "My friends," he continued, lifting his hand with a slight gesture of dismissal, "you have been kind to Benoni; God will reward you; farewell!"
The friends, one a woman of the neighborhood, the other the wife of the concierge, came and touched his hand, and, bowing to Edward, withdrew, lifting their white aprons to their faces as they passed from the room.
"You are very ill," said Edward, placing his hand upon the old man's arm; "I have just returned to Paris and came at once."