“Government employment, I think.”
“In the—er—scientific line, perhaps?” drawled Jones.
“Why, yes, I believe it was.”
“Um-m. Suppose, now, Linder should drop out of the combination. Who would be the most likely nominee?”
“Marsden—the man I’ve been grooming for the place. A first-class, honorable, fearless man.”
“Well, it’s only a chance; but if I can get one dark point cleared up—”
He paused as a curious, tingling note came from the platform where the musicians were tuning tip.
“One of Bellerding’s sweet dulcets,” observed Bertram.
The Performer nearest them was running a slow bass scale on a sort of two-stringed horse-fiddle of a strange shape. Average Jones’ still untouched glass, almost full of the precious port, trembled and sang a little tentative response. Up-up-up mounted the thrilling notes, in crescendo force.
“What a racking sort of tone, for all its sweetness!” said Average Jones. His delicate and fragile port glass evidently shared the opinion, for, without further warning, it split and shivered.