“Ah!” came a hoarse whisper. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Moris Klaw standing in the shadow behind us. “How strange! Does he refuse then to publish his compositions?” “Absolutely,” the lady declared earnestly. “He maintains that no one else could play them.” “Is that so?” wheezed Moris Klaw. “Perhaps he is right. Presently we shall hear and judge for ourselves.” He became silent, as the pianist, seating himself, began to speak: “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his broken English, “you know that the friend of us all, our good Hassett, takes this studio because it is haunted. Here, murder is done, yes, and so I shall play to you a prelude newly composed in which--it is appropriate--I try to express in music the lust of slaying.” He paused amid an uncomfortable silence, and then: “Some of you must know,” he resumed, “that all my compositions are emotions, attempts to paint in chords things experienced. Some experiences one cannot have and so can never paint--for atmosphere, atmosphere, is everything! Now I shall paint for you the story of this studio.” With that, he began to play; and although I had never heard him before, I realized from the outset that he was a master of his instrument. Indeed, I thought, a genius. His theme and its treatment alike were unusual, grotesque. There was some quality in the man’s technique which I found myself unable to define. He possessed uncanny power. When, at last, the prelude ended, it was greeted by a silence more eloquent than any applause. It was only momentary, of course. Then came a wild outburst of enthusiasm. Yet it had been long enough, that moment of stillness, for me to hear the squirting of Moris Klaw’s scent spray immediately behind me. And when at last the clapping and shouting died down: “That prelude,” came his voice, almost in my ear, “it has a bad smell. Soon, Isis my child, we must go. It grows late. But perhaps Mr. Hassett will permit me to telephone to my chauffeur, as I allow him to go away? It is all right? Very well. How wonderful is that prelude.” V Skobolov’s attentions to Isis Klaw became very marked. Presently, following some whispered words from her father, I noticed with surprise that she had ceased to avoid the Russian pianist, indeed was consenting to smile upon him. Hence, when presently Moris Klaw’s car arrived, I was prepared for Skobolov’s acceptance of an offer of a lift as far as his hotel. For my own part I confess quite frankly that I disliked the man. I had disliked him on sight, and nearer acquaintance did nothing to dispel that first impression. That Isis disliked him, also, I could not doubt. Therefore I divined that she was playing a part, although its purpose defeated my imagination.