“I must be going,” he said, “I needn’t say anything to you about Sylvia, because all I could say is in your heart already.  Well, we’ve met in this jolly world, Mike, and we’ve been great friends.  Neither you nor I could find a greater friend than we’ve been to each other.  I bless God for this last year.  It’s been the happiest in my life.  Now what else is there?  Your music:  don’t ever be lazy about your music.  It’s worth while taking all the pains you can about it.  Lord! do you remember the evening when I first tried your Variations? . . .  Let me play the last one now.  I want something jubilant.  Let’s see, how does it go?”

He held his hands, those long, slim-fingered hands, poised for a moment above the keys, then plunged into the glorious riot of the full chords and scales, till the room rang with it.  The last chord he held for a moment, and then sprang up.

“Ah, that’s good,” he said.  “And now I’m going to say good-bye, and go without looking round.”

“But might I see you off this afternoon?” asked Michael.

“No, please don’t.  Station partings are fussy and disagreeable.  I want to say good-bye to you here in your quiet room, just as I shall say goodbye to Sylvia at home.  Ah, Mike, yes, both hands and smiling.  May God give us other meetings and talks and companionship and years of love, my best of friends.  Good-bye.”

Then, as he had said, he walked to the door without looking round, and next moment it had closed behind him.

Throughout the next week the tension of the situation grew ever greater, strained towards the snapping-point, while the little cloud, the man’s hand, which had arisen above the eastern horizon grew and overspread the heavens in a pall that became ever more black and threatening.  For a few days yet it seemed that perhaps even now the cataclysm might be averted, but gradually, in spite of all the efforts of diplomacy to loosen the knot, it became clear that the ends of the cord were held in hands that did not mean to release their hold till it was pulled tight.  Servia yielded to such demands as it was possible for her to grant as an independent State; but the inflexible fingers never abated one jot of their strangling pressure.  She appealed to Russia, and Russia’s remonstrance fell on deaf ears, or, rather, on ears that had determined not to hear.  From London and Paris came proposals for conference, for arbitration, with welcome for any suggestion from the other side which might lead to a peaceful solution of the disputed demands, already recognised by Europe as a firebrand wantonly flung into the midst of dangerous and inflammable material.  Over that burning firebrand, preventing and warding off all the eager hands that were stretched to put it out, stood the figure of the nation at whose bidding it had been flung there.