“What does it mean?” she whispered. Then again she seemed to hear that piercing scream.
All this occupied her alert mind only a few short moments. Then her dark enquiring eyes were upon the face of that man who sat staring dreamily at the fire.
“Percy O’Hara!” she whispered low. “The Phantom Violin! Why is he here?”
As if feeling her eyes upon him, he turned half about, favored her with a matchless smile, opened his lips as if to speak, then seeming to think better of it, turned his face once more toward the fire.
“Oh!” she thought, “he was going to tell me!”
But he did not speak. Instead he continued to stare at the fire. She studied his face. Well worth her study, that face. A rather handsome, strong, sensitive face, an honest, kindly face it was. She looked in vain for traces of deep sorrow. They were not to be found. She tried casting him in the role of a man fleeing from justice. It could not be done.
“And yet—”
Once again his eyes were upon her.
This time he took his violin from its case by his side. Tucking it under his chin, he began to play. The music that came to her ears did not seem human. So fine, so all but silent was it, yet so exquisitely beautiful, it might have been the song of a bird on the wing, or angels in heaven.
“Oh!” she breathed as the last faint note died away, and again “Oh!”