The cynical butler interpreted his interest differently.
“You won’t understand a word of what they’re saying. They talk in French. She was at school in Lausanne and he’s a French count, or says he is. I’ve made a mistake in scorning foreign languages,” the butler admitted, “I’d give a lot to know what they talk about.” He was not to know that Trent knew French moderately well.
Left to himself Trent called to mind the actions of a piano tuner. He had often watched his own grand being tuned. When Mrs. Carr Faulkner came into the room she beheld an earnest young man delving among the piano’s depths. She was interested in no man but Jules d’Aucquier who filled her heart and emptied her purse.
“Is the thing much damaged?” she asked presently.
“I think not,” he replied.
“Then you need not stay long?”
“I shall go as soon as possible,” he said.
She sank into a deep chair and thought of Jules. And there came to her face a softer, happier look. The butler’s talk Trent dismissed as mere servants’ gossip. Of Carr Faulkner he knew nothing except that he was years older than his wife. He was, probably, a wealthy roué who had coveted this beautiful woman and bought her in marriage. In high society it was often that way, he mused. Family coercion, perhaps, or the need to aid impoverished parents. It was being done every day. This man of whom the butler spoke was probably her own age. Since the stone age this domestic intrigue must have been going on.
He touched the keyboard—pianissimo at first and then growing bolder plunged into the glorious Liebestod. It was not the sort of thing Mr. Jackson would have done but then Anthony Trent was a head tuner as he had explained. He watched the woman’s face to see into what mood the music would lead her. He was speedily to find out.
“Stop,” she commanded and rising to her feet came to his side. “Why do you do that?”