After the dancer had started on her long journey to “Jim and the baby,” Giles Gaylord dropped into the Stickney kitchen.

“Lucky the theater folks knew her home address, or we’d have been in a fix. Kitty Blue—how strange that she should have the same—”

“What!” interrupted Mrs. Stickney, “her name Blue?”

“Yes. Didn’t I tell you?”

She shook her head absently. “Blue!—Jim Blue!” she murmured. Then she darted across to the trunk in the corner. “This has got to come open!” she exclaimed decidedly, stooping once again to try the key. “Blue, bring me the oil bottle, will you? I’ll put on a little more.”

Footsteps in the hall were followed by a knock. Mr. Gaylord opened the door. As Mrs. Stickney was inquired for, he passed out at once.

“I am Mr. Somerby, Edgar Somerby of the People’s Theater,” was the suave introduction, and Blue’s mother found herself facing a well-dressed, smooth-mannered stranger, whose glittering eyes ranged the room even while he was speaking.

“I have called to thank you for your kindness to our late comrade,” he began effusively. “We all appreciate it more than I can express. Unfortunately I was out of town while Mrs. Blue was ill, and so did not know when she—er—passed away. I just heard of it, not an hour ago, coming in on the train.” He had taken the chair offered him, and was leaning back comfortably. “This is a very sad affair. We all feel Mrs. Blue’s death deeply. I was shocked at the news. We were great chums, Kit and I. In fact,” he lowered his voice confidentially, “I fully expected to marry her some day—it has broken me all up! She was a wonderful dancer! Ever see her pirouette? No? Too bad! She was bound to be famous if she’d ’a’ lived. She’d been at it since she was eight years old. Her mother was a ballerina of some little reputation, I believe. Too bad Kit had to die! Her toe-dancing was simply marvelous! And to think I shall see it no more!” He sat for a moment regarding the diamond on his finger. Then, with a sigh, he asked languidly, “Did she leave any effects effects—er—anything in the way of musical instruments, do you know?”

“I have seen none,” was the quiet answer.

The man scowled. “She told me not long ago,” he resumed, “about a fiddle she had—I think it belonged to her husband. She said it wasn’t—er—valuable at all, but in case—er—anything happened to her, she wanted me to have it, simply as a memento. So you don’t know what became of it when her room was cleaned out?” His sharp little eyes seemed endeavoring to pierce those which faced him placidly.

Doodles held his breath in terror. Must his treasure be wrested from him before he had even looked upon it?

“I never spoke to the woman in my life,” was the easy answer, “and I did not go into her room until after she died. If there was any fiddle there, I didn’t see it.”

“Did you look about much?” he questioned.

“Oh, yes! We wanted to learn her name, and thought, there might be letters.”

“And you found nothing?” eagerly.

“Only a few little articles of no value. The money for her burial expenses here was in a purse under her pillow.”

“So they told me—and how you made up enough to send her home. It was extremely kind of you. But I’m sorry about that fiddle,” he mused. “I had set my heart on having it—for Kit’s sake. Of course, you’ve heard nothing of her giving it to anybody?” he suddenly probed.

Doodles went white. What would his mother—? But she was already speaking—in that soft, even voice of hers.

“If she was so anxious for you to have it,” she smiled, “she would not have been likely to give it to anybody else, would she?” She met his eyes fearlessly.

“Well, no,—er—she wouldn’t,” he admitted, with a queer laugh. “But in her dying condition she might have been forced into almost anything, you see.”

“We are all of us poor people,” said Mrs. Stickney quietly; “but I don’t know of any one in this house mean enough to compel a dying woman to give up anything against her will. Besides, if the instrument was good for nothing, what should a stranger want of it?”

Mr. Somerby shrugged his shoulders. “They might imagine it was valuable. Some folks are so fierce to get the earth they’ll grab any—er—old thing that floats their way. Then you think there is no use in my questioning the other residents?” He awaited her answer with sharp, half-shut eyes.

“It would hardly seem so; but, of course, you can do as you please.”

“Guess it would be a—er—waste of time, though I hate to give it up. It is possible Kit disposed of it. I’ve heard she was hard-pushed sometimes—too bad! I’d have helped her in a minute if she’d ’a’ let me; but she was a—er—proud little minx—always so—er—independent. I should like one little memento of Kit,” he mused. “I can’t realize I shall never see her toe it again.”

He rose, and with a lingering hand-shake repeated his thanks to Mrs. Stickney and The Flatiron, after which he said his good-byes.

When the feet of Mr. Somerby were actually upon the stairs, the three looked at one another. Blue threw up his arm and whirled a silent cheer. Doodles grinned delightedly.

“It is well that lock bothered,” said their mother, dropping beside the trunk again. “I’m sorry he came. I hated to quibble in that way, but I couldn’t see what else to do. We must honor the woman’s wishes, at all events. I wouldn’t let him have it now anyway,” she ended under her breath.

“Why, Doodles promised straight that he wouldn’t give it to him or anybody else—say,” Blue suddenly burst out, “I bet he lied about the fiddle, don’t you?”

“Looks a little like it,” she answered, still working at the lock, “but we can’t tell.”

“We sha’n’t dare let anybody know about it, shall we?” queried Blue.

“They’ll have to if I play on it!” Doodles’s voice held dismay.

“We won’t decide what to do till we get it,” Mrs. Stickney smiled. “It doesn’t look as if that would be very soon. I never saw such a stubborn thing as—ah!” At last the key turned, the lock clicked!

She threw back the cover, disclosing a wavy mass of pink.

“My!” cried Blue, “guess that’s her dancin’ dress.” He held up the fluffy short-skirted frock.

“Is it there?” Doodles bent forward excitedly.

His mother was lifting out more dresses, blue and yellow and white. Then came a long, green-covered something which sent the color into Doodles’s face and then drove it away.

“Lock the door!” ordered Mrs. Stickney in an undertone. Which Blue did.

She laid the instrument across the small knees, and the boy’s breath came fast and fluttering as he lifted it from its case. A look of awe stole into his eyes—his violin! his own! He clasped it to his heart, and bent his head reverently.

“Why don’t you—” began Blue, and then stopped. Doodles was giving thanks.