* * * * *

An hour later Brigit found herself sitting in a big red-leather
armchair, in a highly modern and comfortable, if slightly gaudy
apartment--Joyselle's study. There was a small grate-fire with a red
club-fender, a red, patternless carpet, soft, well-draped curtains, and
tables covered with books and smoking materials.

There was also a baby-grand piano, covered with music, and a huge grey
parrot in a gilded and palatial cage.

It was Joyselle's translation of an English gentleman's room, even to
the engravings and etchings on the wall. One thing, however, the girl
had never before seen. One end of the room was glassed in as if in a
huge oak frame, and the wall behind it was literally covered with signed
photographs.

"Most of 'em are royalties," Joyselle explained with a certain naïf
pride, "beginning with your late Queen. I used to play Norman folk-songs
to her. There is the Kaiser's, the late Kaiser's, the Czar's, Umberto's,
Margarita's, who loves music, more than most--and _toute la boutique_.
Then there are also those of all the musicians, and--but you will see
to-morrow."

He had brought his violin-case upstairs, and now opened it and took out
his Amati. "I will play for you, _ma chère fille_," he declared.

And he played. Brigit watched him, amazed. Where was the rowdy,
loud-voiced, amusing and almost ridiculously boyish middle-aged man with