about him. He's not been long in the country. The manager found him in some
small place in Germany last summer."

"How old is he? Where does he live?"

"Somewhat in forty, I should say. I don't know where he stays. If you want
to see him, why don't you come to the theatre when he's there?"

"Good idea, this. Good night."

I would look up this German musician who had come from an obscure German
town. I would go to him and bluntly say:

"Mr. Weinmann, I beg your pardon, but is it true, as some people say it is,
that your real name is Heinrich Spellerberg?"

Meanwhile there was nothing to do but go to bed.

All the way home the tune rang in my head. I whistled it softly as I
began to undress, until I heard the sound of the piano in the parlour
down-stairs. Few of us ever touched that superannuated instrument. The
only ones who ever did so intelligently were Schaaf and the professor. The
latter was wont to visit the piano at any hour of the night. We all were
used to his way, and we liked the subdued melodies, the dreamy caprices,
the vague, trembling harmonies that stole through the silent house.

I never see moonlight stretching its soft glory athwart a darkened room but
I hear in fancy the infinitely gentle yet often thrilling strains that used
to float through the still night from the piano as its keys took touch from
the delicate white fingers of the professor.