It was a relief to awake from the phantasmagoria of horrors that crowded my dreams. It was nearly two o'clock, and I had written to my friend Ellison asking him to luncheon at that hour. The meal was rather a silent one for two of us, but Ellison talked incessantly. He was in high spirits, having just been appointed to a university professorship in physiology—his specialty. "I've been busy getting my lecture material together," he explained, and "I had a beastly piece of bad luck the other day. My own fault, I suppose, but it illustrates the point that our American baggage system is still far from perfection. Now the European idea—"
"Shall we go into the library for coffee," said Indiman, a little abruptly, and I could see that Ellison's chatter was beginning to get on his nerves; my own were vibrating like harp-strings. I walked over to one of the library windows and looked out, just in time to catch sight of a man backing quickly into the shadow of the areaway opposite.
From down the street came the sound of a childish voice singing. Great Heavens! It was Verdi's aria "Celeste Aida," with F natural in the third bar instead of F sharp.
"I am going out for a few minutes," I said, carelessly. "Just around the corner to get a special-delivery stamp. Of course you'll wait, Ellison," and I gave Indiman a quick glance. He understood.
Perhaps I was shadowed by the watchers in the areaway. I neither knew nor cared. My one idea was to catch up with the child, and this time luck was with me.
The little girl acknowledged shyly that she had learned the tune from a hand-organ. "It belongs to my uncle Bartolomeo," she explained, proudly. "It is a good organ, signore. There are little figures of men and women under the glass front, and when the musica plays they dance—so."
Uncle Bartolomeo was fortunately at home, and I persuaded him to accompany me back to 4020 Madison Avenue. He spoke English perfectly, and looked both honest and shrewd. Well, we would find some way of getting the truth out of him.
A police-officer opened the door for me. So the blow had fallen already. I went on up to the library, taking Bartolomeo with me. At the door I waited a moment.
Brownson sat at the long table, the picture of the zealous and efficient guardian of public safety. The maid-servant, Mary, had just been interrogated—of course, it was she who had betrayed us, and Brownson was evidently her young man. What infernal luck!
"Now, Mr Indiman—" said Brownson, sternly, "but be careful what you say; it may be used against you."