It was difficult to find the door as I came up to the villa, but after a moment, I saw a broad band of yellow light coming from the side, and turned towards it. I walked upon the turf of a little lawn, and threaded my way between orange and pepper trees, with here and there a bush of Cape gooseberries. And up to that moment I never had a suspicion or a qualm. Indeed, I felt at peace with myself and all the world, washed and purified by the sweet Alpine air and all the loveliness my eyes had looked upon that day. Then I heard, clear, strong and sudden, a chord of music on a piano. I stopped dead still. Again that crash of sound, and then a smooth and mellow arpeggio, as masterly fingers ran up and down the keys of a magnificent instrument. I grew cold, suddenly and horribly cold. I could see nothing but a long French window glowing orange with light in the dark side of the house. I had heard nothing but some chords upon a grand piano. But in that moment, though subconsciously, I _knew_. I moved forward in little automatic jerks, listening with a dreadful fear, a sick certainty. The second before I came to the window and looked inside, it began. Played by a master hand, I heard the opening notes of the Third Ballade of Chopin.... Another step, and, in the darkness myself, I could see into the room. The musician was Mr. Vargus. He had grown a little moustache, which was waxed at the ends, and a small black imperial on his chin. He was also much fatter than when I had seen him last, and he wore a smoking jacket of purple velvet. On one finger was a diamond ring, which flashed in the lamplight as the firm, powerful hands rose and fell. There was a soft smile in the sly eyes as he interpreted the beautiful, fantastic music. I am going to tell you what happened without comment or any reference whatever to my own feelings. The melody progressed to that marvellous passage which Beardsley saw in line as a white horse ambling through a dark wood of pines, ridden by a lady in a dress of black velvet. At the opening chords of the theme a door behind the player opened quietly. He heard nothing. An awful and august figure entered. It was Danjuro, but not the Danjuro I had ever known. He wore a robe of yellow silk with wide kimono sleeves, and a sash of purple round his waist. Into the sash was thrust the long scabbard of an ancient Japanese sword--a scabbard of tortoise-shell and silver. His hair was differently arranged, his lips compressed into a single line. The eyes, which seemed curiously elongated, glittered like black lacquer in a high light. He crept forward and touched Vargus on the shoulder. The man in the velvet coat leapt up with a short, sharp cry. Then he whipped round and came face to face with Danjuro. They remained, staring into each other's eyes for several seconds.