“Yes,” said I, “it spoke like the magic pipe—only that wasn’t a tobacco-pipe—in the German folk-story of the ‘Singing Bone.’ Do you remember it? A peasant found the bone of a murdered man and fashioned it into a pipe. But when he tried to play on it, it burst into a song of its own—
‘My brother slew me and buried my bones Beneath the sand and under the stones.’”
“A pretty story,” said Thorndyke, “and one with an excellent moral. The inanimate things around us have each of them a song to sing to us if we are but ready with attentive ears.”
A WASTREL’S ROMANCE
PART I
THE SPINSTERS’ GUEST
The lingering summer twilight was fast merging into night as a solitary cyclist, whose evening-dress suit was thinly disguised by an overcoat, rode slowly along a pleasant country road. From time to time he had been overtaken and passed by a carriage, a car or a closed cab from the adjacent town, and from the festive garb of the occupants he had made shrewd guesses at their destination. His own objective was a large house, standing in somewhat extensive grounds just off the road, and the peculiar circumstances that surrounded his visit to it caused him to ride more and more slowly as he approached his goal.
Willowdale—such was the name of the house—was, to-night, witnessing a temporary revival of its past glories. For many months it had been empty and a notice-board by the gate-keeper’s lodge had silently announced its forlorn state; but to-night, its rooms, their bare walls clothed in flags and draperies, their floors waxed or carpeted, would once more echo the sound of music and cheerful voices and vibrate to the tread of many feet. For on this night the spinsters of Raynesford were giving a dance; and chief amongst the spinsters was Miss Halliwell, the owner of Willowdale.
It was a great occasion. The house was large and imposing; the spinsters were many and their purses were long. The guests were numerous and distinguished, and included no less a person than Mrs. Jehu B. Chater. This was the crowning triumph of the function, for the beautiful American widow was the lion (or should we say lioness?) of the season. Her wealth was, if not beyond the dreams of avarice, at least beyond the powers of common British arithmetic, and her diamonds were, at once, the glory and the terror of her hostesses.