In fact, he
almost resented his luck; he would so much rather have stood indebted to
his skill. And there were other causes for disappointment, as in an
instant there were things more incredible to Langholm than the everyday
coincidence of a chance meeting with the one person whom one desires to
meet.
"So that's the man!" he echoed, in a tone that might have told his
companion something, only the fingers which Langholm had feared to crush
had already fallen upon the keys, with the strong, tender, unerring
touch of a master, and the impressionable player was swaying with
enthusiasm on his stool.
"And can't he play?" whispered Valentine Venn, as though it were the
man's playing alone that they were discussing.
Yet even the preoccupied novelist had to listen and nod, and then
listen again, before replying.
"He can," said Langholm at length. "But why was it that they took such
pains to keep his name out of the case?"
"They didn't. It would have done no good to drag him in. The poor devil
was at death's door at the time of the murder."
"But is that a fact?"
Venn opened his eyes.
"Supposing," continued Langholm, speaking the thing that was not in his
mind with the deplorable facility of the professional
story-teller--"supposing that illness had been a sham, and they had
really meant to elope under cover of it!"
"Well, it wasn't.
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