“Good,” cried Merivale.
He sprang out of bed and lighted the gas.
“Shall Mahomet go to the mountain or shall the mountain come to Mahomet?” he inquired, blinking his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean shall we dress and adjourn to the other room? Or shall I bring your musical library in here, so that we can conduct our investigation without getting up?”
“Just as you please,” I answered.
“Well, we’ll move the mountain, then,” he said, and left the room.
He made two or three trips, back and forth, bearing an armful of music as the fruit of each. The last folios deposited on the floor, “Now, as to method,” he inquired, “how shall we start? It will occupy us till doom’s-day if we undertake to go through the whole of this. I suppose there are some composers we can eliminate à priori, eh?”
“Oh, yes; Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Wagner, Liszt, in particular, we needn’t trouble with. I’d keep an especially sharp eye out for Ruben-stein and Dvorak and Winiauski. It’s fortunate that I’ve preserved all the music I’ve ever owned. We can’t miss it if we’re only patient enough.”
“Well, here goes,” he cried, thrusting a thick pile of music into my hands, and apportioning an equal amount to himself.