"
They were still sitting there, when the notes of a softly touched
guitar stole in through the open window. Both glanced about in
surprise, but Miss Spencer was first to recover speech.
"A serenade! Did you ever!" she whispered. "Do you suppose it can be
he?" She extinguished the lamp and knelt upon the floor, peering
eagerly forth into the brilliant moonlight. "Why, Naida, what do you
think? It's Mr. Moffat. How beautifully he plays!"
Naida, her face pressed against the other window, gave vent to a single
note of half-suppressed laughter. "There 's going to be something
happening," she exclaimed. "Oh, Miss Spencer, come here quick--some
one is going to turn on the hydraulic."
Miss Spencer knelt beside her. Moffat was still plainly visible, his
pale face upturned in the moonlight, his long silky mustaches slightly
stirred by the soft air, his fingers touching the strings; but back in
the shadows of the bushes was seen another figure, apparently engaged
upon some task with feverish eagerness. To Miss Spencer all was
mystery.
"What is it?" she anxiously questioned.
"The hydraulic," whispered the other.
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