All at once Cutty felt himself little, trivial, beside this forlorn
bier. What did he know about love? He had never made any sacrifices; he
had simply carried in his heart a bittersweet recollection. But here!
Twenty-odd years of unremitting devotion to the son of the woman he
had loved--Stefani Gregor. Creating environments that would develop the
noble qualities in the boy, interposing himself between the boy and the
evil pleasures of the uncle, teaching him the beautiful, cleansing his
soul of the inherited mud. Reverently Cutty drew the coverlet over the
fine old head.

"What's this?" asked one of the operatives. "Looks like the pieces of a
broken fiddle."

Out of those dark red bits of wood--some of them bearing the imprints of
hobnails--Cutty constructed the scene. A wave of bitter rage rolled over
him. The beast! Karlov had done this thing, with poor old Gregor looking
on, too weak to intervene. Not so many years ago these bits of wood,
under the master's touch, had entranced the souls of thousands. Cutty
recalled a fairy tale he had read when a boy about a prince whose soul
had been transformed into a flower which, if plucked or broken, died.
Karlov had murdered Stefani Gregor, perhaps not legally but actually
nevertheless.

Rehabilitated in soul, Cutty left the room. He had read a compelling
lesson in self-sacrifice. He was going to pick up his cross and go on
with it, smiling. After all, Kitty was only an interlude; the big thing
was the game; and shortly he would be in the thick of great events
again. But Kitty should be happy.