"What"ll it be, Nell?"
"I"ll take a dozen panned. I"m hungry enough to eat all the oysters that ever came out of the sea. A rehearsal like that gives one an appet.i.te."
"A dozen panned, and lobster salad for me, and two bottles of beer," was the order of the first speaker to the waiter.
I recognized the faces as pertaining to the chorus of the opera company at the ---- Theatre. I stopped whistling while I watched them.
Suddenly, like a delayed and multiplied echo of my own whistling, came in a soft hum from one of the girls the notes of the doctor"s tragically a.s.sociated strain of music.
The doctor and I exchanged glances. The girl stopped humming.
"I think that"s the prettiest thing in the piece, Maude," said she.
Undoubtedly it was the comic opera to be produced at the ---- Theatre to which she alluded as "the piece."
"Amazing," I said to the doctor. "Millocker composed the piece she"s talking about. Millocker never killed a wife in Paris. Nor would he steal bodily from another. Perhaps the thing has been interpolated by the local producer. It doesn"t sound quite like Millocker, anyhow. I must see about this."
"Where are you going?"
"To the Actors" Club, or a dozen other places, until I find Harry Griffiths. He"s one of the comedians in the company at the ---- Theatre, and he has a leading part in that piece to-morrow night. He"ll know where that tune came from."
"As you please," said the amiable doctor. "But I must go home. You can tell me the result of your investigation to-morrow. It may lead to nothing, but it will be interesting pastime."
"And again," I said, putting on my overcoat, "it may lead to something.
I"ll see you to-morrow. Good night."
I found Griffiths at the Actors" Club, telling stories over a mutton-chop and a bottle of champagne. When the opportunity came I drew him aside.
"I have bet with a man about a certain air in the new piece. He says it"s in the original score, and I say it"s introduced, because I don"t think Millocker did it. This is it," and I whistled it.
"Quite right, my boy. It"s not in the original. Miss Elton"s part was so small that she refused to play until the manager agreed to let her fatten it up. So Weinmann composed that and put--"
"This Weinmann," I interrupted, abruptly, "what do you know about him?
Who is he?"
"He"s Gustav Weinmann, the new musical director. I don"t know anything about him. He"s not been long in the country. The manager found him in some small place in Germany last summer."
"How old is he? Where does he live?"
"Somewhat in forty, I should say. I don"t know where he stays. If you want to see him, why don"t you come to the theatre when he"s there?"
"Good idea, this. Good night."
I would look up this German musician who had come from an obscure German town. I would go to him and bluntly say:
"Mr. Weinmann, I beg your pardon, but is it true, as some people say it is, that your real name is Heinrich Spellerberg?"
Meanwhile there was nothing to do but go to bed.
All the way home the tune rang in my head. I whistled it softly as I began to undress, until I heard the sound of the piano in the parlour down-stairs. Few of us ever touched that superannuated instrument. The only ones who ever did so intelligently were Schaaf and the professor.
The latter was wont to visit the piano at any hour of the night. We all were used to his way, and we liked the subdued melodies, the dreamy caprices, the vague, trembling harmonies that stole through the silent house.
I never see moonlight stretching its soft glory athwart a darkened room but I hear in fancy the infinitely gentle yet often thrilling strains that used to float through the still night from the piano as its keys took touch from the delicate white fingers of the professor.
Suddenly the musical summonings of the player a.s.sumed a familiar aspect,--that of the tune which I had been singing in my own brain for the past hour.
Then it occurred to me that the professor, being a second violin in the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, would doubtless know more about the antecedents of the new musical director than Griffiths had been able to tell me. This was the more probable as the professor himself had come from Germany.
I descended the stairs softly, traversed the hallway, and, looking through the open door, beheld the professor at the piano.
The curtains of a window were drawn aside, and the moonlight swept grandly in. It pa.s.sed over a part of the piano, bathed the professor"s head in soft radiance, fell upon the carpet, and touched the base of the opposite wall. Upon a sofa, half in light, half in shadow, reclined Schaaf, who had fallen asleep listening while the professor played.
The professor"s face was uplifted and calm. Rapture and pain--so often mutual companions--were depicted upon it. I hesitated to break the spell which he had woven for himself. After watching for some seconds, however, I began quietly:
"Professor."
The tune broke off with a jangling discord, and the player turned to face me, smiling pleasantly.
"Pardon me," I went on, advancing into the room and standing in the moonshine that he might recognize me, "but I was attracted by the air you were playing. They tell me that it isn"t Millocker"s, but was composed by your new conductor at the ----"
The professor answered with a laugh:
"Ja! He got de honour of it. Honour is sheap. He buy dat. It doesn"t matter."
"Ah, then it isn"t his own. And he bought the tune? From whom?"
"Me."
"You?"
"Ja. And I have many oder to gif sheap, too."
"But where did you get it?"
"I make it."
"When?"
"Long "go. I forget. I have make so many. Dey go away from my mindt an"
come again back long time after."
"Professor, what would you give me to tell you where and when you composed that tune?"
He looked at me with a slightly bewildered expression. It was with an effort that I continued, as I looked straight into his eyes:
"I will hazard a guess. Could it have been in Paris--one day twelve years ago--"
"I neffer be in Paris," he interrupted, with a start which shocked and convinced me, slight evidence though it may seem. So I spoke on: