“I must try it,” he answered, a little sheepishly, “we always have to test an instrument.”
“But to play the Liebestod” she said severely. “I have heard them all play it, Bauer, Borwick, Grainger, d’Albert and Hoffman and you dare to try! It was impertinent of you. Of course if you must play just play those chords tuners always use.”
Trent admitted afterwards he had never been more angry or felt more insulted in his life. He had not for a moment supposed this butterfly woman even knew the name of what he played.
“I won’t offend again,” he said with what he hoped was a sarcastic inflection. She answered never a word. She seemed to be listening. Trent heard a sound that might have been the opening of the elevator door. Then came hurried steps along the hall and Jules d’Aucquier entered.
He was dark to the point of swarthiness, tall and graceful. His rather small head reminded Trent of a snake’s. As a man who knew men Trent determined that the newcomer was dangerous. The look that he threw across the room to the intruder was not pleasant.
He spoke very quickly in French.
“Who is this?” he demanded.
“No one who matters,” she answered in the same tongue.
“But what is the pig doing here at this hour?” he asked.
“Repairing the piano,” she told him, “a poor tuner I imagine for the reason that he plays so well. I had to stop him when he began the Liebestod. It affects me too much. That was being played when you first looked into my eyes, dear one.”