“And why not?” he demanded harshly. She winced, and he was at once sorry. “Forgive me. I am tired and--a bit nervous. And you, too, are tired. You've been working too steadily at this miserable job, my dear child. Thank Heaven, it will soon be over. Pray sit down. Frederic will soon be here.” “I am not tired,” she protested stubbornly. “I love the work. You don't know how proud I shall be when it comes out, and--and I realise that I helped in its making. No one has ever been in a position to tell the story of Tibet as you have told it, Mr Brood. Those chapters will make history. I------” “Your poor father's share in those explorations is what really makes the work valuable, my dear. Without his notes and letters I should have been feeble indeed.” He looked at his watch. “They were at the concert, you know--the Hungarian orchestra. A recent importation, 'Tzigane's' music. Gipsies.” His sentences as well as his thoughts were staccato, disconnected. Lydia turned very cold. She dreaded the scene that now seemed unavoidable. Frederic would come in response to his father's command, and then------ Someone began to play upon the piano downstairs. She knew, and he knew, that it was Frederic who played. For a long time they listened. The air, no doubt, was one he had heard during the evening, a soft, sensuous waltz that she had never heard before. The girl's eyes were upon Brood's face. It was like a graven image. “God!” fell from his stiff lips. Suddenly he turned upon the girl. “Do you know what he is playing?” “No,” she said, scarcely above a whisper. “It was played in this house by its composer before Frederic was born. It was played here on the night of his birth, as it had been played many times before. It was written by a man named Feverelli. Have you heard of him?” “Never,” she murmured, and shrank, frightened by the deathlike pallor in the man's face, by the strange calm in his voice. The gates were being opened at last! She saw the thing that was to stalk forth. She would have closed her ears against the revelations it carried. “Mother will be worried if I am not at home------” “Guido Feverelli. An Italian born in Hungary. Budapest, that was his home, but he professed to be a gipsy. Yes, he wrote the devilish thing. He played it a thousand times in that room down------ And now Frederic plays it, after all these years. It is his heritage. God, how I hate the thing! Ranjab! Where is the fellow? He must stop the accursed thing. He------” “Mr Brood! Mr Brood!” cried Lydia, appalled. She began to edge toward the door. By a mighty effort Brood regained control of himself. He sank into a chair, motioning for her to remain. The music had ceased abruptly. “He will be here in a moment,” said Brood. “Don't go.” They waited, listening. Ranjab entered the room; so noiseless was his approach that neither heard his footsteps. “Well?” demanded Brood, looking beyond.