Abruptly, the music ceased. Then, in another instant, there came a series of noble chords, sonorous and serene. Followed the tripping dance of arpeggios, which deftly hinted of a melody to come. The Rag-time Kid quivered in ecstatic anticipation of something splendid, nor was he disappointed.
There sounded a lilting melody, a-throb with the joy of life. The notes rang with the calls of passion; they trembled into the sighings of exquisite tenderness. There was rapture in the magnificent harmonies that marched with this melody. It was like a song of two hearts glorious in the fulfillment of their love, with all the universe chanting praise of their happiness. It was the lyric of love triumphant.
The man at the piano raised his arms high, and brought his hands down on the keys in a great swoop. The flames in the smoking-oil lamps leaped and quivered at the devil's din of the discord. The nerves of those that heard leaped and quivered. The player got up from the stool. His eyes swept the staring faces, and he smiled—a smile like a curse.
"You don't know who I am, boys," he said. His voice, resonant, yet softly modulated, was very gentle—dangerously gentle the listeners might have thought, had they known him well.
Dan McGrew knew him well. He understood that the crisis was upon him. He shifted very slightly in his chair, that he might have greater freedom of movement when the need came. He darted a single glance at his wife, and saw her sitting erect again, gazing at the player with dilated eyes in which showed the hunger of a soul. Dan McGrew cursed beneath his breath, and did not look again. Instead, he held his whole attention on the man who had spoken, and who now spoke once more:
"I haven't anything to say to you, except that"—the voice deepened and roughened savagely—"one of you is a hound of hell! His name is—Dan McGrew!"
Two shots rang out, which almost blent as one—almost, not quite. The crowd scattered and dropped to the floor. The lights went out.
TWO SHOTS RANG OUT, WHICH ALMOST BLENT AS ONE.