This was some subtle cunning of his to entrap her. He was clever enough to devise it.... What had she played last evening at the Bockley Victoria Theatre that could have “impressed” anybody so much? The show had been a third-rate revue, the music of which was both mediocre and childishly simple. The piano was bad. She had played, if anything, not so well as usual. The piano was, for the most part, drowned in the orchestra. Moreover, there were scores of pianoforte players in the district who would have been eager to appear on such a distinguished programme as the one he had sent. It was absurd to pick her out. She had no musical degree, had never played at a big concert in her life. The other artists might even object to her inclusion if they knew who she was. In any case, no astute concert-organizer would risk putting her in. She was well-known, and scores of people would say, as soon as they saw her on the platform: “Why, that’s the red-haired girl who plays the piano at the theatre.” Catherine came to the definite conclusion that the letter was thoroughly “fishy.” Yet she wrote back saying: DEAR GEORGE, Thanks for letter and invitation, which I am pleased to accept. My piece will be Liszt’s Concert Study in A flat, unless you think it too classical, in which case I can play a Polischinelle by Rachmaninov. Yours sincerely, CATHERINE WESTON. Catherine thought: If I can make use of George Trant to further my ambitions, why shouldn’t I? If this leads to anything in the way of bettering my earnings or getting engagements to play at concerts, it will be no more than what George Trant owes me. And if this is merely a trap laid for me, we’ll see who’s the more astute this time. In any case it should lead to some interesting situations, and it will at least vary the monotony of life.... It suddenly struck her that perhaps her father would come and hear her play. The possibility opened up wild speculations. Her dramatic interest pictured him rising from his seat in the middle of the Concert Study in A flat, and crying with arm uplifted--“God!--My daughter!” Or perhaps he would sob loudly and bury his head in his hands. Yet, remembering their meeting in the railway carriage, she knew he would do nothing of the sort.... ... The audience would sit spell-bound as the Concert Study rang out its concluding chords. As the last whispered echo died on the air the whole building would ring with shouts of tumultuous applause. Those nearest the front would swarm on to the platform, seizing her hand in congratulation. A buzz of conversation would go round, startled, awe-stricken conversation: “Who is that red-haired girl?--Who is she?--Plays at the theatre?--Oh, surely not. Impossible!” They would demand an encore. She would play Chopin’s Study, “Poland is Lost.”