"Very good. I have in my apartment rather a distinguished guest who
plays the violin for his own amusement. He is ill and cannot select for
himself. Now I know a little about music but nothing about violins."
"I suggest that I personally carry half a dozen instruments to your
apartment and let your guest try them. How much is he willing to pay?"
"Top price, I should say. Shall I make a deposit?"
"If you don't mind. Merely precautionary. Half a dozen violins will
represent quite a sum of money; and taxicabs are unreliable animals. A
thousand against accidents. What time shall I call?" The proprietor's
curiosity was stirred. Musical celebrities, as he had occasion to know,
were always popping up in queer places. Some new star probably, whose
violin had been broken and who did not care to appear in public before
the hour of his debut.
"Three o'clock," said Cutty.
"Very well, sir. I promise to bring the violins myself."
Cutty wrote out his check for a thousand and departed, the chuckle still
going on inside of him. Versatile old codger, wasn't he?
Promptly at three the dealer arrived, his arms and his hands gripping
violin cases. Cutty hurried to his assistance, accepted a part of the
load, and beckoned to the man to follow him. The cases were placed on
the floor, and the dealer opened them, putting the rosin on a single
bow.
Hawksley, a fresh bandage on his head, his shoulders propped by pillows,
eyed the initial manoeuvres with frank amusement.
"I say, you know, would you mind tuning them for me? I'm not top hole."
The dealer's eyebrows went up. An Englishman? Bewildered, he bent to the
trifling labour of tuning the violins. Hawksley rejected the first two
instruments after thrumming the strings with his thumb. He struck up a
melody on the third but did not finish it.
"My word! If you have a violin there why not let me have it at once?"
The dealer flushed. "Try this, sir. But I do not promise you that I
shall sell it."
"Ah!" Hawksley stretched out his hands to receive the instrument.
Of course Cutty had heard of Amati and Stradivari, master and pupil. He
knew that all famous violinists possessed instruments of these schools,
and that such violins were practically beyond the reach of many. Only
through some great artist's death or misfortune did a fine violin return
to the marts. But the rejected fiddles had sounded musically enough for
him and looked as if they were well up in the society of select fiddles.
The fiddle Hawksley now held in his hands was dull, almost black. The
maple neck was worn to a shabby gray and the varnish had been sweated
off the chin rest.