Edith took it and removed the card inside. “Why, this is my husband’s writing!” she cried. “Yes,” nodded the girl. It bore the postmark of Doncaster, and the letter was brief. It was addressed to the old musician, and ran:-- “Enclosed you will find a postal order for one pound. On receipt of this go to the house of Mr. Standerton between the hours of half-past seven and eight o’clock and play Rubenstein’s ‘Melody in F.’ Ascertain if he is at home, and if he is not return the next night and play the same tune at the same hour.” That was all. “I cannot understand it,” said Edith, puzzled. “What does it mean?” The girl musician smiled. “I should like to know what it meant too. You see, I am as curious as you, and think it is a failing which all women share.” “And you do not know why this was sent?” “No.” “Or what is its meaning?” Again the girl shook her head. Edith looked at the envelope and examined the postmark. It was dated May the twenty-fourth. “May the twenty-fourth,” she repeated to herself. “Just wait one moment,” she said, and ran upstairs to her bedroom. Feverishly she unlocked her bureau and took out the red-covered diary in which she had inscribed the little events of her life in Portland Square. She turned to May the twenty-fourth. There were only two entries. The first had to do with the arrival of a new dress but the second was very emphatic:-- “G. S. came at seven o’clock and stayed to dinner. Was very absent-minded and worried apparently. He left at ten. Had a depressing evening.” She looked at the envelope again. “Doncaster, 7.30,” it said. So the letter had been posted a hundred and eighty miles away half an hour after he had arrived in Portland Square. She went back to the dining-room bewildered, but she controlled her agitation in the presence of the girl. “I must really patronise one of the arts,” she smiled. She took a half-sovereign from her purse and handed it to May. “Oh, really,” protested the little musician. “No, take it, please. You have given me a great deal to think about. Has Mr. Standerton ever referred to this incident since?” “Never,” said the girl. “I have never seen him since except once when I was on the top of an omnibus.” A few minutes later the girl left. Here was food for imagination, sufficient to occupy her mind, thought Edith. “What did it mean?” she asked, “what mystery was behind all this?” Now that she recalled the circumstances, she remembered that Gilbert had been terribly distrait that night; he was nervous, she had noticed his hand shaking, and had remarked to her mother upon his extraordinary absent-mindedness. And if he had expected the musician to call, and if he himself had specified what tune should be played, why had its playing produced so terrible an effect upon him? He was no _poseur_. There was nothing theatrical in his temperament. He was a musician, and loved music as he loved nothing else in the world save her!