“Do you mean to say—” began Jones; but shouts of laughter interrupted his question, and, turning to a group of students, he pursed up his mouth and emitted a long but inaudible whistle. Charley, meanwhile, was assailed with questions by the girls as to what made him suspect that the Don was a musician; but he passed, smiling and silent, towards the western door, and he stood there bowing the ladies out on their way to the Hall. “Fiend in human shape!” breathed Alice, as she passed out, threatening him with upraised forefinger. “Do you really think so?” asked he, in a hurried, half-choking whisper,—the idiot! The enchantress stopped, and slowly turning her head, as she stood with one foot upon the pavement and the other on the step above, turning her head, all gilded and glorious with the mellow rays of the setting sun, gave him one Parthian glance, half saucy, half serious, and bounded forward to overtake her companions. Charley, with his eyes riveted upon her retiring figure, stood motionless till she had disappeared within the Hall. Did he hope—the simpleton—for another look? The Don and I were lingering on the Hall steps when Charley came up. “By the way, how on earth did you divine that I played on the violin? You have no objection to telling me?” “None in the world. There was no divination about the matter. When you were knocked senseless by the runaway horses, I helped to undress you. On removing your coat a paper fell out of the breast-pocket, and I remarked, on picking it up, that it was a sheet of manuscript music.” “Oh yes, I remember,—a little waltz that I had composed that day.” “I didn’t know who had compo-po-po-sed it,” replied Charley, dryly, “but I have m-m-m-ade it a rule all m-m-my life never to play before people who went about the country, getting run over, with m-m-m-anu-script m-m-m-u-sic in their pockets.” “And you would seem,” added the Don, smiling, “never to have mentioned your suspicions?” “Not to me, certainly,” said I. “Not to you, nor to Uncle Tom; not even to Jones.” “Not even to Jones!” repeated the Don, laughing heartily. “Thanks,” added he, suddenly seizing Charley’s hand,—“thanks.” And he sprang lightly into the room. “Charley, you are a rare one. The idea of your not letting the old man or myself into the secret.” “W-e-l-l, y-e-s,” said he, abstractedly. He seemed in no hurry to enter the room, holding me back by a firm though unconscious grasp upon my arm. “I say, Jack,” said he, in a confidential tone. And he stopped. “Well?” “Isn’t she a stunner?” And he nodded towards a group of girls who stood about the piano. “Which one?” He dug me in the ribs and passed into the Hall. CHAPTER XXXV.