The visitor Harry recognized instantly; it was the man who had called for fair play at the fight before the saloon, who had drawn him into the hotel. Felder carried a bundle under his arm. He nodded curtly to Prendergast and addressed himself to Harry. "I am the bearer of a gift from some one in the town," he said. "I have been asked to deliver this to you." He put the bundle into the other's hands. Harry drew up one of the chairs hastily. "Please sit down," he said courteously. He looked at the bundle curiously. "_Et eos dona ferentes_," he said slowly. "A gift from some one in the town!" A keen surprise flashed into the lawyer's glance. "The quotation is classic," he said, "but it need not apply here." He took the bundle, unwrapped it and disclosed a battered violin. "Let me explain," he continued. "For the owner of this you fought a battle yesterday. You tested its tone a little later--it seems that you are a master of the most difficult of instruments. There was a time, I believe, when the old man was its master also; he was once, they say, the conductor of an orchestra in San Francisco. Drink and the devil finally brought him down. For three years past he has lived in Smoky Mountain. Nobody knows his name--the town has always called him 'Old Despair.' You did him what is perhaps the first real kindness he has ever known at its hands. He has done the only thing he could to requite it." Harry had colored painfully as Felder began to speak. The words brought back that playing and its strange rejuvenescence of emotion, with acute vividness. His voice was unsteady as he answered: "I appreciate it--I am deeply grateful--but it is quite impossible that I accept it from him." "You need not hesitate," said the lawyer. "Old Despair needs it no longer. He died last night in Devlin's dance-hall, where he played--when he was sober enough--for his lodging. I happened to be near-by, and I assure you it was his express wish that I give the violin to you." Rising, he held out his hand. "Good night," he said. "I hope your memory will soon return. The town is much interested in your case." The flush grew deeper in Harry's cheek, though he saw there was nothing ironical in the remark. "I scarcely hope so much," he replied. "I am learning that forgetfulness has its advantages." As the door closed behind the visitor, Prendergast kicked the chair back to the table. "You're getting on!" he sneered, his oily tone forgotten. "Damn his impertinence! He didn't offer to shake with _me_! Come on and play." Harry opened the door again and sat down on the cool step, the violin in his hands. "I think I don't care for the cards to-night," he said. "I'd rather play this." CHAPTER XXII THE PASSING OF PRENDERGAST