“The rest,” she said, holding tightly to his hands, “is the most important of all. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. It’s well hidden, miss. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. It’s a lake among precipices, and there is a little inn where we can stay, and sit and eat our dinner at a pleasant table that looks upon the lake. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket.
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