Mr. Cleaver pronounced himself indifferent as to beetles or crickets. ‘They won’t hurt me,’ he said; ‘I’ve had to deal with worse than black-beadles in my time.’ Mr. Simcox followed Lucius to the room that contained the Sivewright collection—that curious chaos of relics and fragments which represented the knowledge and labour of a lifetime. The detective surveyed these works of art with a disparaging eye. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much for the melting-pot here!’ he exclaimed; ‘or much portable property of any kind.’ ‘There’s a good deal of curious old china,’ answered Lucius, ‘which is, I believe, more valuable than silver. The thief who stole the old plate might return for that.’ ‘He might,’ answered Mr. Simcox with a sceptical air; ‘but he must be a cut above the common run of thieves if he knows much about old chaney; the sterling metal is what most of ’em go in for. However, here I am, sir, and I know my duty. I’m ready to watch as many nights as you please.’ ‘Very good,’ said Lucius; ‘then I’ll wish you good-night, Mr. Simcox; and if you want a mattress and a blanket, I daresay Mr. Wincher—the old man who opened the door to you—will give you them. I don’t live in the house, but I shall be here early to-morrow morning to learn the result of your watch. Good-night.’ He had his hand upon the door, when a sound from the other side of the hall—low, but still sufficiently audible—startled him as if it had been the fall of a thunderbolt. It was his own violin, played softly—a wild minor strain, dirge-like and unearthly. Scarcely had he heard the notes when they died away. It was almost as if he had dreamed them. There was not time for him to utter an exclamation before all was dumb. Then came a muffled sound, like the cautious closing of a heavy door; but that strange strain of melody possessed the soul and ears of Lucius, and he did not hear that stealthy closing of the hall-door. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked the detective eagerly. ‘Hear what, sir?’ ‘A violin played in the opposite room.’ ‘Well, no, sir, I can’t say as I did. Yet I fancy I did hear somethink in the way of music—a barrel-organ, perhaps, outside.’ ‘Strange!’ muttered Lucius; ‘my senses must be growing confused. I have been too long without sleep, or I have thought too much. My brain has been unceasingly on the rack; no wonder it should fail. Yet I could have sworn I heard a wild unearthly strain—like—like other music I heard once.’ It was a foolish thing, he felt, to be disturbed by such a trifle. A mere fancy, doubtless, but he was disturbed by it nevertheless. He hurried across to the parlour where he had left his violin. There it lay, just as he had put it down. The room was empty.