All the way home the tune rang in my head. I whistled it softly as I began to undress, until I heard the sound of the piano in the parlour down-stairs. Few of us ever touched that superannuated instrument. The only ones who ever did so intelligently were Schaaf and the professor. The latter was wont to visit the piano at any hour of the night. We all were used to his way, and we liked the subdued melodies, the dreamy caprices, the vague, trembling harmonies that stole through the silent house. I never see moonlight stretching its soft glory athwart a darkened room but I hear in fancy the infinitely gentle yet often thrilling strains that used to float through the still night from the piano as its keys took touch from the delicate white fingers of the professor. Suddenly the musical summonings of the player assumed a familiar aspect,--that of the tune which I had been singing in my own brain for the past hour. Then it occurred to me that the professor, being a second violin in the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, would doubtless know more about the antecedents of the new musical director than Griffiths had been able to tell me. This was the more probable as the professor himself had come from Germany. I descended the stairs softly, traversed the hallway, and, looking through the open door, beheld the professor at the piano. The curtains of a window were drawn aside, and the moonlight swept grandly in. It passed over a part of the piano, bathed the professor's head in soft radiance, fell upon the carpet, and touched the base of the opposite wall. Upon a sofa, half in light, half in shadow, reclined Schaaf, who had fallen asleep listening while the professor played. The professor's face was uplifted and calm. Rapture and pain--so often mutual companions--were depicted upon it. I hesitated to break the spell which he had woven for himself. After watching for some seconds, however, I began quietly: “Professor.” The tune broke off with a jangling discord, and the player turned to face me, smiling pleasantly. “Pardon me,” I went on, advancing into the room and standing in the moonshine that he might recognize me, “but I was attracted by the air you were playing. They tell me that it isn't Millocker's, but was composed by your new conductor at the ----” The professor answered with a laugh: “Ja! He got de honour of it. Honour is sheap. He buy dat. It doesn't matter.” “Ah, then it isn't his own. And he bought the tune? From whom?” “Me.” “You?” “Ja. And I have many oder to gif sheap, too.” “But where did you get it?” “I make it.” “When?” “Long 'go. I forget. I have make so many. Dey go away from my mindt an' come again back long time after.” “Professor, what would you give me to tell you where and when you composed that tune?” He looked at me with a slightly bewildered expression. It was with an effort that I continued, as I looked straight into his eyes: