A beautiful chord, that last! Oh, how subtle, how
beautiful! It seemed to curl and glide on like a serpent through
the grass, leaving strange trails behind as of a flowing signature;
a flowing signature with bold twirls and flourishes--twirls
and flourishes--twirls and flourishes--twirls, twirls, twirls and
flourishes; the signature to a cheque; to a cheque for money; three
thousand pounds at Drummond, Coutts and Barclay's.
It ran through his head, keeping time with the bars. Four thousand
pounds; five thousand; six thousand.
The longer he played the clearer and sharper the plan stood out.
He saw his way now as clear as daylight. And his way too, to make
a deal more in the end by it.
"Pay self or bearer six thousand pounds! Six thousand pounds;
signed, Cyril Waring!"
For hours he paced up and down there, playing long and low. Oh,
music, how he loved it; it seemed to set everything straight all at
once in his head. With bow in hand and violin at rest, he surpassed
himself that evening in ingenuity of fingering. He trembled to think
of his own cleverness and skill. What a miracle of device! What a
triumph of cunning! Not an element was overlooked. It was safe as
houses. He could go to bed now, and drop off like a child; having
arranged before he went to make Guy Waring his cat's paw, and turn
this sad stroke of ill-luck in the end to his own ultimate greater
and wider advantage.
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