“I'll take a dozen panned. I'm hungry enough to eat all the oysters that ever came out of the sea. A rehearsal like that gives one an appetite.” “A dozen panned, and lobster salad for me, and two bottles of beer,” was the order of the first speaker to the waiter. I recognized the faces as pertaining to the chorus of the opera company at the ---- Theatre. I stopped whistling while I watched them. Suddenly, like a delayed and multiplied echo of my own whistling, came in a soft hum from one of the girls the notes of the doctor's tragically associated strain of music. The doctor and I exchanged glances. The girl stopped humming. “I think that's the prettiest thing in the piece, Maude,” said she. Undoubtedly it was the comic opera to be produced at the ---- Theatre to which she alluded as “the piece.” “Amazing,” I said to the doctor. “Millocker composed the piece she's talking about. Millocker never killed a wife in Paris. Nor would he steal bodily from another. Perhaps the thing has been interpolated by the local producer. It doesn't sound quite like Millocker, anyhow. I must see about this.” “Where are you going?” “To the Actors' Club, or a dozen other places, until I find Harry Griffiths. He's one of the comedians in the company at the ---- Theatre, and he has a leading part in that piece to-morrow night. He'll know where that tune came from.” “As you please,” said the amiable doctor. “But I must go home. You can tell me the result of your investigation to-morrow. It may lead to nothing, but it will be interesting pastime.” “And again,” I said, putting on my overcoat, “it may lead to something. I'll see you to-morrow. Good night.” I found Griffiths at the Actors' Club, telling stories over a mutton-chop and a bottle of champagne. When the opportunity came I drew him aside. “I have bet with a man about a certain air in the new piece. He says it's in the original score, and I say it's introduced, because I don't think Millocker did it. This is it,” and I whistled it. “Quite right, my boy. It's not in the original. Miss Elton's part was so small that she refused to play until the manager agreed to let her fatten it up. So Weinmann composed that and put--” “This Weinmann,” I interrupted, abruptly, “what do you know about him? Who is he?” “He's Gustav Weinmann, the new musical director. I don't know anything about him. He's not been long in the country. The manager found him in some small place in Germany last summer.” “How old is he? Where does he live?” “Somewhat in forty, I should say. I don't know where he stays. If you want to see him, why don't you come to the theatre when he's there?” “Good idea, this. Good night.” I would look up this German musician who had come from an obscure German town. I would go to him and bluntly say: “Mr. Weinmann, I beg your pardon, but is it true, as some people say it is, that your real name is Heinrich Spellerberg?” Meanwhile there was nothing to do but go to bed.