The next moment he heard the inn door open behind him, and turning round saw a short, broad figure on the doorstep, wrapped in an enormous motor-coat.
"Will you not play something else?"
The words came heavily, with a teutonic lumber. Nigel saw a round, florid face, and dark, very close-cropped hair.
He hesitated—perhaps the stranger was making game of him.
"I have been listening to you for some time, and now I have come to see you. I am surprised. I do not think you are a beggar."
"Not quite," said Nigel.
"Well, play some more."
Again Furlonger hesitated. Then he hoisted his fiddle to his shoulder with a short, rather grating, laugh.
He played the Requiem from Il Trovatore.
There was silence. The darkness seemed to pass in waves over the sky, each wave engulfing it deeper. The wind sobbed a strange little tune in the eaves of the inn.