He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The latter seemed inclined to advance and address the former; but suddenly changing his mind, he shouted to his companion in tones familiar to the stranger's ear; and, striking spurs into his steed, dashed off at full speed along the Edgeware Road. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. “It’s his birthday. ‘By the by, get Trodger to send up one of our best men, will you? Someone discreet.
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