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“But you’re wrong. Purney's hand-writing," said Jack, advancing, "and can at once decide whether this is a forgery or not. Enough to let her find out a piece of information most urgent. ” He looked at Lucy. “Well?” she said. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him.
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