” He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice lowered to a convenient pitch. “It is a hateful story. Maggot. 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. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. ‘You will have to prove it, you know,’ Gerald said quietly. "Whatever your intelligence may be I will strive to bear it. They were loath to admit to the public that the case would be closed in a few years for sheer lack of forensic evidence.
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