"Good idea," Cutty agreed. "Take my card along with you." This was
a Fifth Avenue shop, and Cutty knew there would be a Who's Who or a
Bradstreet somewhere about.

In the interim he inspected the case-lined walls. Trombones. He
chuckled. Lucky that Hawksley's talent didn't extend in this direction.
True, he himself collected drums, but he did not play them. Something
odd about music; human beings had to have it, the very lowest in the
scale. A universal magic. He was himself very fond of good music; but
these days he fought shy of it; it had the faculty of sweeping him back
into the twenties and reincarnating vanished dreams.

After a certain length of time, from the corner of his eye he saw the
clerk returning with the proprietor, the latter wearing an amiable
smile, which probably connoted a delving into the aforesaid volumes of
attainment and worth. Cutty hoped this was so, as it would obviate the
necessity of going into details as to who he was and what he had.

"Your name is familiar to me," began the proprietor. "You collect
antique drums. My clerk tells me that you wish to purchase a good
violin."

"Very good. I have in my apartment rather a distinguished guest who
plays the violin for his own amusement. He is ill and cannot select for
himself. Now I know a little about music but nothing about violins."