“I have read it in the German,” declared the Italian; “in his own language, just as he wrote it.  It is nothing.”

Pendleton looked at Ashton-Kirk admiringly; the manner in which his friend had established the fact that Spatola knew the German language seemed to him very clever.  But Ashton-Kirk made no sign other than that of interest in the subject upon which they talked.

“A race that has given the world such musicians as Wagner, Beethoven and Mozart,” said he, “must possess in a tremendous degree the musical sense.  The German knowledge of tone and its combinations is extraordinary; and their music in turn is as complex as their psychology and as simple as the improvisation of a child.”

Spatola seemed surprised at this apparent warmth; he looked at Ashton-Kirk questioningly.

“And, with all their scholarship, the Germans are so practical,” went on the latter.  “Only the other day I came upon a booklet published in Leipzig that dealt with the difficulty a composer sometimes encounters in getting the notes on paper when a melody sweeps through his brain.  The writer claimed that the world had lost thousands of inspirations because of this, and to prevent further loss, he proffered an invention—­a system of—­so to speak—­musical shorthand.”

A sullen look of suspicion came into Spatola’s face; he regarded the speaker from under lowered brows.

“Perhaps you don’t quite understand the value of such an invention,” proceeded Ashton-Kirk.  “But if you had a knowledge of stenography, and the short cuts it—­”

But the Italian interrupted him brusquely.

“I know nothing of such things,” said he, “and what is more I don’t want to know anything of them.”  Then in a sharp, angry tone, he added:  “What do you want of me?  I am not acquainted with you.  Why am I annoyed like this?  Is it always to be so—­first one and then another?”

At this sudden display of resentment, the turnkey approached.

“I will go back to my cell,” Spatola told him, “and please do not bring me out again.  My nerves are bad.  I have been worried much of late and I can’t stand it.”

The turnkey looked at Ashton-Kirk, who nodded his head.  And, as Spatola was led gesticulating away, Pendleton said in a low tone of conviction: 

“I tell you, Kirk, there’s your man.  Besides the other things against him, he knows German.”

“But what of the phonographic signs?”

“He knows them also.  His manner proved it.  As soon as you mentioned shorthand he became suspicious and showed uneasiness and anger.  I tell you again,” with an air, of finality, “he’s your man.”

CHAPTER XIII

A NEW LIGHT ON ALLAN MORRIS

From the City Hall the car headed for Christie Place once more; it halted some half dozen doors from Hume’s and the occupants got out.

The first floor was used by a dealer in second-hand machinery, but at one side was a long, dingy entry with a rickety, twisting flight of stairs at the end.  Ashton-Kirk rang the bell here, and while they waited a man who had been seated in the open door of the machine shop got up and approached them.