“It is merely my duty to enlighten Signor Donati,” said the little man to himself—“merely my duty!” CHAPTER XXVI. Carlo Donati had considerable insight into character; not only had he been born with this gift, but his wandering life had brought him into contact with all sorts and conditions of men, and had been an excellent education to one who had always known how to observe. He was, moreover, of so sympathetic a temperament that he could generally tell in a moment when trouble was in the air, and the ridiculously trivial affair about the music-stand, which could not have dwelt in his mind for a minute on its own account, opened his eyes to the relations existing between Mr. Horner and the Norwegian. That something was wrong with the latter he had perceived when Frithiof had first spoken to him in the cloak-room, and now, having inadvertently been the cause of bringing upon him a severe rebuke, he was determined to make what amends lay in his power. He cut short Mr. Horner’s flattering remarks and reiterated apologies as to the slight _contretemps_. “It is of no consequence at all,” he said. “By the by, what is the nationality of that young fellow? I like his face.” “He is Norwegian,” replied Mr. Horner, glancing at Frithiof, who was arranging the platform for Madame Gauthier, the pianiste. “You think, no doubt, that I spoke too severely to him just now, but you do not realize what a worthless fellow he is. My partner retains him merely out of charity, but he has been proved to be unprincipled and dishonest.” The last few words reached Frithiof distinctly as he came down the steps; he turned ghastly pale, his very lips grew white; it was as though some one had stabbed him as he re-entered the little room, and the eyes that turned straight to the eyes of the Italian were full of a dumb anguish which Donati never forgot. Indignant with the utter want of kindness and tact which Mr. Horner had shown, he turned abruptly away without making the slightest comment on the words; but often through the evening, when Frithiof was engrossed in other things, Donati quietly watched him, and the more he saw of him the less was he able to believe in the truth of the accusation. Meantime he was waiting for his opportunity, but he was unable to get a word with the Norwegian until the end of the concert, when he met him on the stairs. “Are you at liberty?” he asked. “Is your work here over?” Frithiof replied in the affirmative, and offered to look for the great baritone’s carriage, imagining that this must be the reason he had addressed him. “Oh, as, to the carriage!” said Donati easily, “it will be waiting at the corner of Sackville Street. But I wanted a few minutes’ talk with you, and first of all to apologize for having been the unwilling hearer of that accusation, which I am quite sure is false.”