Ronnie stood with grave face gazing at the Infant.
What did it all mean?
He remembered with the utmost vividness every detail of the scene in the
mirror.
Had he thought-read from his 'cello the happenings of a century before?
Had it transmitted to his over-wrought brain, the scene in which it had
once played so prominent a part?
Had it, before then, in the Leipzig flat, imparted to Aubrey
Treherne--unconsciously to himself--an accurate mental picture of its
former owner?
Ronnie mused on this, and wondered. Then the desire rose strong within
him to hear once more the golden voice of the Infant, even at the risk
of calling up again those ghostly phantoms of a vanished past.
He drew the Florentine chair into the centre of the room.
He took his seat on the embossed leather of crimson and gold.
He glanced at his reflection. His face was whiter than it had been five
weeks ago, when he returned, deep bronzed, from Africa. His hair, too,
was longer than it ought to be; though not so long as the heavy black
locks of the 'cellist of that past reflection.
Ronnie's rough tweed suit and shooting boots, were a curious contrast
to the satin knee-breeches, silken hose, and diamond shoe-buckles he
remembered in his vision; yet his manner of holding the 'cello, assumed
without conscious thought, and the positions of his knees and feet, were
so precisely those of that quaint old-time figure, that Ronnie never
doubted that when he raised the bow and his fingers bit into the
strings, the flood of harmony would be the same.
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