“By the way, how on earth did you divine that I played on the violin? You have no objection to telling me?”
“None in the world. There was no divination about the matter. When you were knocked senseless by the runaway horses, I helped to undress you. On removing your coat a paper fell out of the breast-pocket, and I remarked, on picking it up, that it was a sheet of manuscript music.”
“Oh yes, I remember,—a little waltz that I had composed that day.”
“I didn’t know who had compo-po-po-sed it,” replied Charley, dryly, “but I have m-m-m-ade it a rule all m-m-my life never to play before people who went about the country, getting run over, with m-m-m-anu-script m-m-m-u-sic in their pockets.”
“And you would seem,” added the Don, smiling, “never to have mentioned your suspicions?”
“Not to me, certainly,” said I.
“Not to you, nor to Uncle Tom; not even to Jones.”
“Not even to Jones!” repeated the Don, laughing heartily. “Thanks,” added he, suddenly seizing Charley’s hand,—“thanks.” And he sprang lightly into the room.
“Charley, you are a rare one. The idea of your not letting the old man or myself into the secret.”
“W-e-l-l, y-e-s,” said he, abstractedly. He seemed in no hurry to enter the room, holding me back by a firm though unconscious grasp upon my arm. “I say, Jack,” said he, in a confidential tone. And he stopped.