His voice struck a chord in her, as a voice that sings may set a wire vibrating.
“It was here—in this room.”
“Here?”
“Yes. It was I who found him. His hands had touched these notes the day before. He had sung the song that I have played to you.”
Upon the panel of the upturned lid was a picture painted in an oval scroll of flowers, a sensuous scene from a fête galante with men and women dancing and looking love. The colors and the gestures of each minute figure seemed to burn in upon the girl’s brain, as small things will when life hangs upon a look or upon a word.
Barbara rose slowly, pushing the settle back, and gazing into the mirror at the man’s dark and thoughtful face.
“It was some unknown sword that killed him.”
She had turned, and his eyes met hers.
“Nothing was ever discovered.”
“Nothing?”