He turned his head toward Cutty, “You're a thoroughbred, sir. This will do more to bring me round than all the doctors in the world.” “But what the deuce is the difference?” Cutty demanded with a gesture toward the rejected violins. The dealer and Hawksley exchanged smiles. Said the latter: “The other violins are pretty wooden boxes with tolerable tunes in their insides. This has a soul.” He put the violin against his cheek again. Massenet's “Elegie,” Moszkowski's “Serenata,” a transcription, and then the aria from Lucia. Not compositions professional violinists would have selected. Cutty felt his spine grow cold as this aria poured goldenly toward heaven. He understood. Hawksley was telling him that the shade of his glorious mother was in this room. The boy was right. Some fiddles had souls. An odd depression bore down upon him. Perhaps this surprising music, topping his great emotions of the morning, was a straw too much. There were certain exaltations that could not be sustained. A whimsical forecast: This chap here, in the dingy parlour of his Montana ranch, playing these indescribable melodies to the stars, his cowmen outside wondering what was the matter with their “inards.” Somehow this picture lightened the depression. “My fingers are stiff,” said Hawksley. “My hand is tired. I should like to be alone.” He lay back rather inertly. In the corridor Cutty whispered to the dealer: “What do you think of him?” “As he says, his touch shows a little stiffness, but the wonderful fire is there. He's an amateur, but a fine one. Practice will bring him to a finish in no time. But I never heard an Englishman play a violin like that before.” “Nor I,” Cutty agreed. “When the owner sends for that fiddle let me know. Mr. Hawksley might like to dicker for it. If you know where the owner is you might cable that you have an offer of twelve thousand.” “I'm sorry, but I haven't the least idea where the owner is. However, there is an understanding that if the loan isn't covered in eighteen months the instrument becomes salable for my own protection. There is a year still to run.” Four o'clock found Cutty pacing his study, the room blue with smoke. Of all the queer chaps he had met in his varied career this Two-Hawks topped the lot. The constant internal turmoil that must be going on, the instincts of the blood--artist and autocrat! And in the end, the owner of a cattle ranch, if he had the luck to get there alive! Dizzy old world. Something else happened at four o'clock. A policeman strolled into Eightieth Street. He was at peace with the world. Spring was in his whistle, in his stride, in the twirl of his baton. Whenever he passed a shop window he made it serve as a mirror. No waistline yet--a comforting thought.