The effect upon Mr. Bradley was remarkable. His eyes seemed to light up with that strange, cat-like, amber-coloured light which now and then came into them, and the expression of mysterious expectation upon his face changed to one of certainty. “You had never heard it before? You are quite sure you had never heard it before?” “No, I don’t think so,” answered Grif, in surprise. “What is it? Is it a real tune?” “It is the tune I taught him,” Mr. Bradley whispered, laying his hand on the little boy’s arm. “It is the last tune I taught him. He was to have played it at the village concert.” “Who?” asked round-eyed Grif. Mr. Bradley pointed with his ebony stick to the grave beside them, and somehow Grif did not need to be told any more. Yet the knowledge came to him with a kind of shock, and a little shiver passed through his body. He felt suddenly that he was alone here with Mr. Bradley, and that he wanted to go home. “It is the tune I was playing when I saw him――when he came back that night in the church,” the organist went on in a low confidential voice, his long thin fingers still clutching Grif tightly by the arm. “An old Italian tune that I don’t suppose half a dozen people, apart from a few musicians, have ever heard. It was written by an Italian organist called Gian Peruzzi, nearly two hundred years ago. I got it along with a heap of old church music.... You had better not talk about it.” “Talk about it!” “Don’t tell anybody about it;――even about hearing the flute at all. Captain Batt would be very angry if he got to know. He would be angry with me, and perhaps with you too, even though he wouldn’t believe you. _I_ believe you, because I heard it myself, and because I know such things happen.” He gave a strange low laugh, and his eyes slid away from Grif to the grave, and back to Grif again. “And did――he not play it at the concert?” Grif faltered, suddenly feeling a peculiar reluctance to pronounce the player’s name. Mr. Bradley shook his head. His eyes now gazed straight into Grif’s, and they seemed to grow larger and brighter, so that the little boy could not look away from them. “He died a week before the concert was to have taken place.... But,” he added with a quick sly smile, “you must promise me that you won’t mention this to anyone.” Grif promised, and Mr. Bradley went on, speaking in the same low stealthy voice which, though it was hardly raised above a whisper, seemed to vibrate in Grif’s soul, clear and penetrating as the note of a violin. “I wouldn’t have told you about it if it had not been that I think you must be in danger, and that I ought to warn you, to put you on your guard.” “What danger?” Grif breathed nearly inaudibly. Mr. Bradley’s eyes narrowed to two shining slits. “From him: it was you he was playing to. And if he did that, don’t you see it can only be because he wants to get at you in some way?” “But――he is dead!” Grif whispered, trying to draw his arm from the organist’s grip.