He wished the eyes would lift and look at him, piercing the darkness of the darkening room.

Another log fell.  Again flames darted upwards.  Each detail in the mirror was clear once more.

The playing grew more rapid.  Ronnie felt his fingers flying, yet pressing deeply as they flew.

The right foot of the figure, placed further back than the left, was slightly raised.  The heel was off the floor.

Ronnie’s right heel was also lifted.

Then, looking past the figure in the chair, he marked behind him, where in the reflection of the studio should have been the door, heavy black curtains hanging in sombre folds.  And, even as Ronnie noticed these, they parted; and the lovely face of a woman looked in.

As Ronnie saw that face he remembered many things—­things of exquisite joy, things of poignant sorrow; things inexpressible except in music, unutterable except in tone.

The ’cello sobbed, and wailed, and sang itself slowly into a minor theme; yet the passion of the minor was more subtle, sweeter far, than the triumph of the major.

The woman glided in.

Ronnie watched her.  She came and softly stood behind the Florentine chair.

Apparently she made no sound.  The ’cellist did not raise his eyes.  He appeared totally unconscious of her presence.

The woman bent her beautiful head, observing him closely.  Following her eyes, Ronnie saw a ruffle of old lace falling from the ’cellist’s throat, a broad crimson ribbon crossing his breast, on which glittered a diamond star.

The woman waited.

Ronnie watched.

The ’cellist played on.

The fire burned low.

Then another log fell.  Again flames darted upward.

Ronnie saw the woman lay her left hand noiselessly upon the back of the Italian chair, then slip her right behind her and take something bright, off a table covered with bright things.  And, as he watched, she flung her right hand high above her head, and in it, point downwards, gleamed the sharp blade of a dagger.

Her eyes met Ronnie’s in the mirror.  A gleam of malicious triumph shot from them.

He knew she was about to kill the unconscious ’cellist.

His one thought was to warn and to save him.  He knew no sound he made could be heard in a past century; but whatever he himself now did, he instinctively felt the ’cellist in the mirror would also do.

With a desperate effort he stopped the movement of the bow.

He had just time to see the ’cellist in the mirror also pause.

Then Ronnie dropped his bow, gripped the ’cello with both hands, and, as the swift blow fell, drew the body of the ’cello up over his breast.

Then the back of his chair seemed to give way; his feet left the floor, and he fell over backwards—­down—­down—­down—­into a never ending abyss of throbbing, palpitating, rolling blackness.