I exonerate the Florentine chair; I exonerate poor Ronnie. I
shall always maintain that that confounded 'cello worked the whole show,
out of its own unaided tummy!"
But Helen did not laugh. She did not even smile. "The heap on the floor
was not Ronnie," she repeated firmly, "nor was I kneeling beside it. The
Italian chair had not fallen over. Not a single thing appertaining to
the present, was reflected in the picture as I first saw it. Dick, there
was a conclusion to my vision of which I have never told you."
"Oh, lor!" said Dick. "When I guaranteed the psychic chap that I was
putting him in full possession of every detail!"
"I am sorry, Dick. But until this moment I have never felt able to tell
you. I cannot do so now, unless you are nice."
"I _am_ nice," said Dick, "_very_ nice! Tell me quick."
"Well, as I knelt transfixed, watching--the heap on the floor moved and
arose. It was a slight dark man, with a white face, and a mass of
tumbled black hair. He lifted from off his breast as he got up, a
violoncello. He did not look at the woman, nor at the man in the crimson
cloak; he stood staring, as if petrified with grief and dismay, at his
'cello. Following his eyes, I saw a dark jagged stab, piercing its
right breast, just above the _f_ hole. The anguish on the 'cellist's
face, was terrible to see. Then--oh, Dick, I don't know how to tell
you!"
"Go on, Helen," he said, gently.
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