Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl, he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back into the house to look for his hostess. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. ‘Typical. When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. Happy Thanksgiving. "Si—lence!" vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last syllable.
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