“Well, it is that you would scribble your name here, in this birthday book of mine. It will be a little souvenir of this evening.”
“But I cannot write well nowadays. I can’t see, you know,” I protested.
“But you can write your signature. If the handwriting is uneven I will forgive you, in the circumstances,” the voice said merrily; and a moment later she placed a pen with a handle of ivory or pearl within my hand.
“What day of the month?” inquired the sweet voice.
“The second of July,” I answered, laughing; and my unknown friend, having opened the book at that page, guided my hand to the paper, whereon I scrawled my name.
She took both pen and book, and by the departing swish of her skirts I knew that she had left me and had passed into the adjoining room.
A strange picture arose in my mind. Was she beautiful? At any rate her surroundings were elegant, and her low musical voice was that of a young and refined girl of twenty or so.
I listened, lying there helpless and sorely puzzled. Again curious whisperings in subdued tones sounded from beyond, but almost at that same moment some one commenced to play upon the piano Chopin’s “Andante-Spinato,” which prevented me from distinguishing either the words uttered or the trend of the discussion.
For several minutes the sound of the piano filled the room, the touch, light and delicate, seeming to be that of a woman, when, of a sudden, there was a loud smashing of glass, and a woman’s shrill, piercing scream rang out, accompanied by the sound of some heavy object falling to the floor.
In an instant the music ceased, and at the same moment I heard a man’s voice cry wildly—