“So you have my fiddle? Good! Grand! Where’s the blank? I’ll sign it.”
“There—there isn’t any blank. I—” Curlie paused in some confusion.
For ten seconds he looked into the frank and friendly eyes of the great master. Then, dropping into a chair, he told his whole story.
“I’ll say you’ve done well!” exclaimed the musician. “Saved me from some bad hours.
“But this other?” His eyes fell upon the third package. He read the address at a glance. Then he whistled.
“For them! You won’t want to go around there before daylight.
“But see here! What a fee they paid! What can they have that is so very valuable?”
“Do—do you know the people?” Curlie’s lips trembled with excitement.
“Not personally. At least they’re no friends of mine. But I know a lot about them.
“You see,” the violinist went on in a changed tone, “my hobby is a sort of study of people and nations and all that. How they live, how they govern themselves, what becomes of their money, and so on. And these people,” he continued with added emphasis, “are Bolsheviks. They represent the present Russian government in America. They are doing the best they can to stir up trouble here. They would gladly destroy our present social order, our government, and set up one similar to the one they have in Russia.