‘Don’t know, I’m sure,’ the musician answered shortly, and turned away. There was nobody left to appeal to, so, putting his fiddle and bow under his arm, he emptied the coppers into his trousers’ pockets, and, putting on his hat, made away in the direction of King’s Cross. Christopher followed at a little distance, wonder-stricken still, and half disposed to return to the charge again. The musician, reaching the corner of Gray’s Inn Road, turned. This was Christopher’s homeward way, and he followed. By-and-by the fiddler made a turn to the right. This was still Christopher’s homeward way, and still he followed. By-and-by the man stopped before a door and produced a latch-key. The house before which he stood was that in which Christopher lodged. He laid a hand upon the fiddler’s shoulder. ‘Do you live here?’ he said. ‘What has that to do with you?’ retorted the fiddler. ‘That was my theme you played,’ said Christopher; ‘and if you live here, I know how you got hold of it. You have heard me play it.’ ‘You live on the third floor?’ said the other in a changed tone. ‘Yes,’ said Christopher. ‘I’m in the attics, worse luck to me,’ said the street player. ‘Come into my room, if you don’t mind.’ He opened the door and went upstairs in the darkness, with the assured step of custom. Christopher, less used to the house, blundered slowly upwards after him. ‘Wait a minute,’ said the occupant of the attic, ‘and I’ll get a light.’ There was a little pause, and then came the splutter of a match. The pale glow of a single candle lit the room dimly. Christopher jumped at the sight of a third man in the room. No! There were but two people there. But where, then, was the man who had led him hither? Here before him was a merry-looking youngster of perhaps two-and-twenty, with a light brown moustache and eyes grey or blue, and close-cropped fair hair. The hirsute and uncombed genius of the street had vanished. ‘Don’t stare like that, sir,’ said the transformed comically. ‘Here are the props.’ He held up a ragged wig and beard. ‘The what?’ asked Christopher. ‘The props,’ returned the other. ‘Props are properties. Properties are theatrical belongings. There’s nothing diabolical or supernatural about it. Wait a minute, and I’ll light the lamp and set the fire going.’ Christopher stood in silence whilst his new acquaintance bustled about the room. The lamp cast a full and mellow light over the whole apartment, and the fire began to crackle and leap merrily. ‘Sit down,’ said the host, and Christopher obeyed. ‘I always like to take the bull by the horns,’ the host continued with a little blush. ‘I didn’t want to be found out at this game, but you have found me out, and so I make the best of it, and throw myself upon your confidence.’ He took up the wig and beard lightly between his finger and thumb and dropped them again, laughing and blushing.