"For
the moment it seemed as if I must be at home. I was experiencing the
purest joy I have known since I left Helen. What do you think of my
'cello, man? Isn't it wonderful?"
"It is very wonderful," said Aubrey Treherne. "Your Infant is all you
hoped. The tone is perfect. But what is still more wonderful is that
you--who believe yourself never to have handled a 'cello before--can set
the strings vibrating with such unerring skill; such complete mastery.
Of course, to me, the mystery is no mystery. The reason of it all is
perfectly clear."
"What is the reason of it all?" inquired Ronnie, eagerly.
"In a former existence, dear boy," said Aubrey Treherne, slowly, "you
were a great master of the 'cello. Probably the Infant of Prague was
your favourite instrument. It called to you from its high place in the
'cello room at Zimmermann's, as it has been calling to you for years;
only, at last, it made you hear. It was your own, and you knew it. You
would have bought it, had its price been a thousand pounds. You could
not have left the place without the Infant in your possession."
Ronald's feverish flush deepened. His eyes grew more burningly bright.
"What an extraordinary idea!" he said. "I don't think Helen would like
it, and I am perfectly certain Helen would not believe it."
"You cannot refuse to believe a truth because it does not happen to
appeal to your wife," said Aubrey.
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