The Romany's eyes glistened. "To play the Sarasate alone to you?" he
asked.
"That's it-at nine o'clock to-night, if you can."
"I will come--yes, I will come," Jethro answered, the lids drooping over
his eyes in which were the shadows of the first murder of the created
world.
"Here is my address, then." Ingolby wrote something on his visiting-
card. "My man'll let you in, if you show that. Well, good-bye."
The Romany took the card, and turned to leave. He had been dismissed by
the swaggering Gorgio, as though he was a servant, and he had not even
been asked his name, of so little account was he! He could come and play
on the Sarasate to the masterful Gorgio at the hour which the masterful
Gorgio fixed--think of that! He could be--a servant to the pleasure of
the man who was stealing from him the wife sealed to him in the Roumelian
country. But perhaps it was all for the best--yes, he would make it all
for the best! As he left the shop, however, and passed down the street
his mind remained in the barber-shop. He saw in imagination the
masterful Gorgio in the red-plush chair, and the negro barber bending
over him, with black fingers holding the Gorgio's chin, and an open razor
in the right hand lightly grasped.
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