Motionless, Bat stood and looked. The harp! Well, and then what? Firmly fixed in the back of his mind for some days was the idea that he’d hear more of the harp before the matter in hand was done.
“And not in a musical way, either,” was his thought. “That instrument means something else, and I’ll gamble that, when it comes out, it’ll be something of interest.”
Again he stood watching. He had a feeling of movement behind the hangings; to be sure the breeze stirred them now and then; but it was not that.
“It’s the girl,” he said, mentally. “And she’s putting something over. But what?”
Across the strings of the harp stole a shadowy hand. Bat listened for a sound, but none came. Again came the hand, and still again, but no sound followed.
“She’s playing,” he told himself. “Playing, and yet the strings are silent.”
Amazed, he stood and watched the shadowy flitting, but the strings were still mute. And then, somehow, there came to the watcher’s mind the scene on the moonlit hilltop the night before when the invalid sat mutely in his chair and gazed at Schwartzberg.
And with this Mr. Scanlon gave it up. As softly as he had come, just so softly did he go; and when he reached his own room, he said, bewilderedly:
“This is what comes of breaking a resolution! I said I’d not try to reason out any more of these things, but I broke the vow and am punished. But here, on this spot, I renew it. Come what will, or go what may, I’m finished!”
And with that Mr. Scanlon went to bed.