I stared at him, only half understanding the speech, and inclined to think that he had lost his head.
“You don’t mean to say that it’s a—a fiddle you’ve come to make all this fuss about?” I at last found voice to say.
“A beauty—and the tone of it, three fiddles in one, and as sweet and soft as a flute,” he cried, not noticing my rising anger.
“Good heavens, man!” I shouted at last, “you don’t mean to tell me that you’ve come here and roused me out of bed at four in the morning about a miserable fiddle that you’ve lost? I thought it was something serious.”
“And do you not call that serious?” he returned, after favouring me with a pitying look which was meant to kill me, but did not. “It is serious for me. I’ll never sleep till I get it.”
“I’m sorry for you, but you might at least have let me sleep—till morning.”
“Worth £400—refused £200 for it the other day,” he continued, quite undisturbed.
“£400!” I echoed. “Is it possible you gave that sum for a fiddle?”
“No, not quite so much, but that’s its value,” he slowly admitted.
“How much did it cost you?”