"It isn't the fiddle, sir; it's the fiddler."
I drove them down; Rouse, in his sheepishness, almost treading on the women's petticoats. Then I turned to Ernest.
"I, like the lady we have just been interviewing, am not partial to ghosts. With your permission, this time I will lead the way upstairs."
I led the way, Ernest following closely after. The music continued—always the same quaint air. It was pretty; but the player must have found that the absence of variety became a trifle monotonous. On this occasion, even when we reached the landing, there was no cessation. The fiddler still fiddled.
"Apparently we have managed to remain unheard. Now for your eccentric friend."
With a quick movement I opened the drawing-room door. Ernest and I entered almost side by side. For an instant, after our entrance, the playing continued. I saw that the violin was raised, I saw that the bow was being drawn across the strings. But who held the violin, and who handled the bow, there was no evidence—visual evidence—to prove. If we could trust our eyes, the room was empty. All at once, before we could say a word, or offer any sort of interposition, the playing ceased. The violin and the bow were placed upon the table—not dropped, but laid carefully down. And all was still.
