“Somewhat in forty, I should say. I don't know where he stays. If you want to see him, why don't you come to the theatre when he's there?”
“Good idea, this. Good night.”
I would look up this German musician who had come from an obscure German town. I would go to him and bluntly say:
“Mr. Weinmann, I beg your pardon, but is it true, as some people say it is, that your real name is Heinrich Spellerberg?”
Meanwhile there was nothing to do but go to bed.
All the way home the tune rang in my head. I whistled it softly as I began to undress, until I heard the sound of the piano in the parlour down-stairs. Few of us ever touched that superannuated instrument. The only ones who ever did so intelligently were Schaaf and the professor. The latter was wont to visit the piano at any hour of the night. We all were used to his way, and we liked the subdued melodies, the dreamy caprices, the vague, trembling harmonies that stole through the silent house.
I never see moonlight stretching its soft glory athwart a darkened room but I hear in fancy the infinitely gentle yet often thrilling strains that used to float through the still night from the piano as its keys took touch from the delicate white fingers of the professor.
Suddenly the musical summonings of the player assumed a familiar aspect,—that of the tune which I had been singing in my own brain for the past hour.
Then it occurred to me that the professor, being a second violin in the orchestra at the —— Theatre, would doubtless know more about the antecedents of the new musical director than Griffiths had been able to tell me. This was the more probable as the professor himself had come from Germany.
I descended the stairs softly, traversed the hallway, and, looking through the open door, beheld the professor at the piano.