Finding in this no source of joy, she gazed away toward the shores of Isle Royale, to dream that she was once more listening to the magic music of the phantom violin.
In this mood she took up her own violin and was soon lost to all else in an attempt to reproduce the notes of the haunting melody that had come to her that night.
To her unspeakable joy, she found she could catch here and there a few scattered notes. With time it came to her more and more.
So engrossed was she in this joyous adventure into the unknown, she did not know that the gypsy songs had ceased, that soft padded footsteps approached, that a little circle of eager listeners had gathered about her.
“Ah!” someone sighed as her last note died away.
Then, in consternation she became conscious of their presence.
“Magnificent!” Bihari exclaimed. “We have artists of the violin in France. Few play more wonderfully. What piece is that?”
“It—” Greta stared. “Why, that is the song of the phantom.”
“Song of the phantom!”
Greta was obliged to tell her story.