“How lovely!” A shade of sadness crept over her face. “The man certainly knows how to play,” she clasped her hands closely. The sound of a violin still moved her to the marrow.
The gorgeous dragoman turned about abruptly.
“Ah, Madame, ze music please ’er? Zat ees ze mad Englissman.”
“The mad Englishman?”
“Ah, yes. ’E is great artiste. But ’e is seek, very seek. He ’ave ze consump’, you know. Eet ees very bad. ’E spit zee blood. ’E seet all day outside ’e’s ’ouse and play ze veolon, and never speak to no ones. ’E’s man, ’e good friend mine, ’e tell me.”
Hands still clasped together nervously, Anne leaned forward. “What is his name?”
“’Ees name? I forget eet. Very strange for Englis name. More like ze Russie. Pe, Pet, but I forgot how eet finis!”
Pale beneath her large hat, Anne prodded him almost angrily. “Try to think, Abdul. Is—is it Petrovskey?”
The dragoman beamed. “Ah, yes, zat ees eet. Per’aps Madame, she ’ave ’eard of ’eem?”
Speechless, Anne nodded. Her long white throat worked spasmodically. Vittorio put an arm about her quivering shoulders.