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at it as one does at a cluster of gems, he

added, ``the adjustment of the strings.''
``That will do,'' interrupted Satan,

taking the violin from the little man,
who bowed low and ceremoniously

took his departure. Then the devil,
pointing to the instrument, asked: ``Isn't

it a beauty?''
The musician, eying it keenly,

replied: ``Yes, it is, but not the kind of
violin I play on.''

``Oh, I see,'' carelessly observed the
other, ``you refer to that extra string.''

``Yes,'' answered the puzzled violinist,
examining it closely.

``Allow me to explain the peculiar
characteristics of this magnificentinstrument,''

said his satanic majesty. ``This
string,'' pointing to the G, ``is the

string of pity; this one,'' referring to the
third, ``is the string of hope; this,''

plunking the A, ``is attuned to love,
while this one, the E string, gives forth

sounds of joy.
``You will observe,'' went on the

visitor, noting the intense interest displayed
by the violinist, ``that the position

of the strings is the same as on any
other violin, and therefore will require

no additional study on your part.''
``But that extra string?'' interrupted

Diotti, designating the middle one on
the violin, a vague foreboding rising

within him.
``That,'' said Mephistopheles,

solemnly, and with no pretense of sophistry,
``is the string of death, and he who

plays upon it dies at once.''
``The--string--of--death!'' repeated

the violinist almost inaudibly.
``Yes, the string of death,'' Satan

repeated, ``and he who plays upon it dies
at once. But,'' he added cheerfully,

``that need not worry you. I noticed a
marvelous facility in your arm work.

Your staccato and spiccato are wonderful.
Every form of bowing appears

child's play to you. It will be easy for
you to avoid touching the string.''

``Why avoid it? Can it not be cut off?''
``Ah, that's the rub. If you

examine the violin closely you will find
that the string of death is made up of

the extra lengths of the other four
strings. To cut it off would destroy the

others, and then pity, hope, love and joy
would cease to exist in the soul of the

violin.''
``How like life itself,'' Diotti

reflected, ``pity, hope, love, joy end in
death, and through death they are born

again.''
``That's the idea, precisely,'' said

Satan, evidently relieved by Diotti's
logic and quick perception.

The violinist examined the instrument
with the practised eye of an expert, and

turning to Satan said: ``The four
strings are beautifully white and transparent,

but this one is black and odd
looking.

``What is it wrapped with?'' eagerly
inquired Diotti, examining the death

string with microscopic care.
``The fifth string was added after an

unfortunate episode in the Garden of
Eden, in which I was somewhat

concerned,'' said Satan, soberly. ``It is
wrapped with strands of hair from the

first mother of man.'' Impressively then
he offered the violin to Diotti.

``I dare not take it,'' said the
perplexed musician; ``it's from--''

``Yes, it is directly from there, but I
brought it from heaven when I--I left,''

said the fallen angel, with remorse in
his voice. ``It was my constant

companion there. But no one in my
domain--not I, myself--can play upon it

now, for it will respond neither to our
longing for pity, hope, love, joy, nor

even death,'' and sadly and retrospectively
Satan gazed into vacancy; then,

after a long pause: ``Try the instrument!''
Diotti placed the violin in position

and drew the bow across the string of
joy, improvising on it. Almost instantly

the birds of the forest darted hither and
thither, caroling forth in gladsome

strains. The devil alone was sad, and
with emotion said:

``It is many, many years since I
have heard that string.''

Next the artist changed to the string
of pity, and thoughts of the world's

sorrows came over him like a pall.
``Wonderful, most wonderful!'' said

the mystified violinist; ``with this
instrument I can conquer the world!''

``Aye, more to you than the world,''
said the tempter, ``a woman's love.''

A woman's love--to the despairing
suitor there was one and only one in this

wide, wide world, and her words, burning
their way into his heart, had made

this temptation possible: ``No droop-
ing Clytie could be more constant than

I to him who strikes the chord that is
responsive in my soul.''

Holding the violin aloft, he cried
exultingly: ``Henceforth thou art mine,

though death and oblivion lurk ever
near thee!''

VII
Perkins, seated in his office,

threw the morning paper aside.
``It's no use,'' he said, turning to the

office boy, ``I don't believe they ever
will find him, dead or alive. Whoever

put up the job on Diotti was a past
grand master at that sort of thing. The

silent assassin that lurks in the shadow
of the midnight moon is an explosion of

dynamite compared to the party that
made way with Diotti. You ask, why

should they kill him? My boy, you
don't know the world. They were

jealous of his enormous hit, of our
dazzling success. Jealousy did it.''

The ``they'' of Perkins comprised
rival managers, rival artists, newspaper

critics and everybody at large
who would not concede that the

attractions managed by Perkins were the
``greatest on earth.''

``We'll never see his like again--
come in!'' this last in answer to a knock.

Diotti appeared at the open door.
Perkins jumped like one shot from a

catapult, and rushing toward the silent
figure in the doorway exclaimed: ``Bless

my soul, are you a ghost?''
``A substantial one,'' said Diotti with

a smile.
``Are you really here?'' continued

the astonished impresario, using Diotti's
arm as a pump handle and pinching

him at the same time.
When they were seated Perkins plied

Diotti with all manner of questions;
``How did it happen?'' ``How did you

escape?'' and the like, all of which Diotti
parried with monosyllabic replies, finally

saying: ``I was dissatisfied with my
playing and went away to study.''

``Do you know that the failure to fulfill
your contract has cost me at least ten

thousand dollars?'' said the shrewd
manager, the commercial side of his

nature asserting itself.
``All of which I will pay,'' quietly

replied the artist. ``Besides I am ready
to play now, and you can announce a

concert within a week if you like.''
``If I like?'' cried the hustling Perkins.

``Here, James,'' calling his office
boy, ``run down to the printer's

and give him this,'' making a note of
the various sizes of ``paper'' he desired,

``and tell Mr. Tompkins that Diotti is
back and will give a concert next Tuesday.

Tell Smith to prepare the newspaper
`ads' and notices immediately.''

In an hour Perkins had the entire
machinery of his office in motion.

Within twenty-four hours New York
had several versions of the disappearance

and return, all leading to one
common point--that Diotti would give

a concert the coming Tuesday evening.
The announcement of the reappearance

of the Tuscan contained a line
to the effect that the violinist would play

for the first time his new suite--a
meditation on the emotions.

He had not seen Mildred.
As he came upon the stage that night

the lights were turned low, and naught
but the shadowy outlines of player and

violin were seen. His reception by the
audience was not enthusiastic. They



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