"Or a little older—say fifty-five?"
"Well, it might have been fifty-five, sir. I couldn't swear to it exactly."
"That will do, Bolder," said Indiman, and our witness retired abashed.
"Check number one," commented Indiman. "Suppose we try the Grand Central now. We won't take out the carriage; the day is fine and I want the walk."
It was a beautiful morning in August, cool and clear, and we strode along briskly. A hand-organ began playing in a side street, and we stopped to listen. "It's the same aria," I said, excitedly—"'Celeste Aida.' What tremendous luck! No, it isn't; deuce take it!" I went on, dejectedly.
"But you just said it was the same," persisted Indiman.
"With a difference," I hastened to explain. Now, Indiman is not musical, and I had some trouble in convincing him that within the compass of a semitone a veritable gulf may yawn. This particular organ played the phrase in the third bar correctly—F sharp and not F natural—and consequently it could not be the same instrument that had vexed my ears half an hour ago at No. 4020 Madison Avenue.
"There is a real difference, then?" said Indiman, thoughtfully. "One that you would recognize again?"
"At any place or time," I answered, confidently. "It is an absolute means of identification, quite as much so as a glass eye would be in a man's face."
"Very good. We'll find that hand-organ, then, if we have to go through 'Little Italy' with a drag-net. How beautifully the problem is working out!—almost too beautifully."