“It is very astonishing to my mother and me to hear you mention those names,” she said. “We only met Mr. Constantine a week before we left the States. He introduced us to Mr. Steindal. At that time, and, indeed, during the past year, I entertained the hope of earning some degree of fame as a violinist. I have made successful appearances in Berlin, London, New York, Boston, and other places, and Mr. Steindal should have proved to be an exceedingly valuable acquaintance. But Mr. Constantine offended me the evening before we sailed, and the words I heard in my dream bore out his previous conduct so completely that I have almost resolved to abandon the idea of a professional career.” “Did you ever hear anything like it?” demanded Mrs. Hutchinson, who was brought back with a bump from psychical manifestations to the hard matter-of-fact details of existence. “Here is this foolish girl thinking of foregoing the results of several years of expensive tuition and some very flattering public receptions, just because she had a queer vision in mid-Atlantic.” “Mother, dear, there was no vision about Mr. Constantine’s behavior at Manhattan Beach?” “No, but that wretched Armenian is not all the world! It is a nice thing if two Anglo-Indians allow a dark person of his type to affect their lives.” Neither Karl nor I moved a muscle when Manhattan Beach was mentioned. But how quaintly these youngsters’ careers had become interwoven after so many years of separation! And what an amazing thing it was that Maggie _heard_ but did not _see_, when one remembered that music broke the seal of Karl’s spiritual hearing! However, I must restrain my speculative thoughts, for Maggie was speaking again. “I call it a dream,” she said earnestly, “but I use that word for want of a better. I feel in my heart, in my brain, that I really did hear what Constantine and Steindal said to each other. They planned a great many things, and, if proof were wanted, Steindal’s agent met us at Liverpool to-day and made the offer I told my mother of last Sunday.” Mrs. Hutchinson, poised on the very pinnacle of doubt, nodded her head. “That is true enough,” she admitted, smiling in her perplexity, “and it is all through you, Mr. Grier, or shall I call you Karl? That is why I wrote to your mother. We were delayed by fog in the Irish Sea, or we should have been in London before her telegram could have reached you.” Karl only smiled in reply. It was almost impossible for either him or me to comment on the broken narrative which reached us. How bewildered and unnerved the two ladies would be if they realized the minuteness with which we fitted each statement they made into the detailed story we already possessed! “Yes,” said Maggie, speaking very slowly, “no doubt you have been wondering how you can possibly be bound up with my affairs?”