"Even so, the case is not quite hopeless. You are a person of some influence in Iceland?"
"Used to be," said Oscar.
"Well, I presume to think I am--my father is Sheriff and likely to be something better--so if you care to give your consent we may recover the things still."
A mist arose between Oscar's eyes and Finsen's face. "You surely do not mean----?"
"Certainly I do. If the things are half as good as Helga says, they're worth all the trouble. Anyhow, I'm willing to gamble on her judgment, to give you something to go on with, and when the stuff comes to devote a morning to trying it with the orchestra, and ask you to conduct the rehearsal."
Finsen's figure was floating in the mist that was between it and Oscar's eyes.
"You wish me to authorize you to exhume----"
"Why not? It's not an unheard of proceeding. And if ever there was a moment that justified it it's now. If compositions that might give pleasure to the world and make pots of money are lying buried in a grave----"
"I'll starve first," said Oscar, rising from his seat.
"My dear chap," said Finsen, putting back his pince-nez, "you tell me you're doing that already. But here's your chance of doing it no more, and if----"