over this aspect of the case made Paula smile as she nodded yes.

"That was an act of real kindness," he said earnestly. "Not mere good
nature. It doesn't grow on every bush."

To this she eagerly agreed. "She is kind; she's a dear." But when she
saw him looking unhappily at the piano again, she said (for she hadn't
the slightest intention of abandoning him now), "There's another one,
quite a different sort of one, in the music room up-stairs. Would you
like to come along and look at that?"

He followed her tractably enough, but up in her studio before looking at
the piano, he asked her a question or two. Had he the name right? And was
the lady related to Doctor Wollaston?

"She's his sister," said Paula, adding, "and I am his wife. Why, do you
know him?"

"I talked with him once. He came out to the factory to see my father and
I happened to be there. Two or three years ago, that was. He did an
operation on my sister that saved her life. He is a great man." He added,
"My name's Anthony March, but he wouldn't remember me."

He sat down at the instrument, went over the keyboard from bottom, to top
and back again with a series of curious modulations. Then opening his bag
and beginning to get out his tools, he said, "Before I went into the
army, there was a man named Bernstein in these parts, who used to
perpetrate outrages like this on pianos."

"Yes," said Paula, "he tuned this one two weeks ago."