CHAPTER I.

MUSIC AND MYSTERY.

“Papa can stand no more! How, then, can I break this to him?” The speaker, a radiantly beautiful young girl, stood sobbing in the great musical emporium of Harry M. Daly & Co.

“Consider me a policeman and not a piano-mover.” As he said these words, Paul Postelwaite came forward with his hat in his hand. For all he knew the damsel in distress might be a carriage customer, and, besides, he was afraid if he left his hat in the shipping department a member of the firm might steal it.

“Oh, sir,” replied the beautiful young girl, “I saw a pianola advertisement some time ago which said: ‘_With this instrument anyone can play the piano._’ And I, taking all my little savings, bought one for papa!”

“Yes?”

“It arrived to-day. Too late, I perceive that a pianola is an instrument from which music can only be extorted by the feet, and poor papa was run over by an electric car and lost both legs.

“It was all my little savings, as I have said. The firm will not take the pianola back, and my poor papa has no visible means of support.”

“But you can sue the street railway company for damages,” said Paul, soothingly.

“We threatened to do that, but the railroad company only said papa should consider he was sufficiently damaged and they did not see why he should sue for any more. However, they said we might bring the matter into court and they would see what they could do to his character.”

“Go home, little one,” said Paul Postelwaite, kindly, “and I will come around this evening and play the pianola for your papa myself.”

The foregoing will show that although Paul moved in musical circles he was neither a sharp nor a flat. His worst predilection was that he continually talked shop, for his last words to his distressed young confidant were, “Compose yourself!”

Paul Postelwaite had long resolved upon a musical career. He knew the pitfalls of the profession. On every side of him he saw and heard the unfortunates who played the piano to excess. A hater of discord, he resolved to save the victims of piano-playing from themselves. To this end he studied piano-moving.

Most pianos are bought on the instalment plan. Most payers for pianos bought on this plan fall behind in their instalments. It was Paul’s duty to call and take away the pianos of those who had been remiss.

He bore abuse and vituperation, not with stolid indifference but with the conscientious feeling that he was a public benefactor.

He had the reward of public appreciation. People afflicted by proximity to those who played the piano to excess no longer complained to the Board of Health. They ascertained if any payments were overdue on the instrument of torture, and then they sent for Paul.

Paul’s father had been a piano-maker. But he had been overtaken by misfortune. He made pianos for the big department stores.

But while he only made one grade of piano, he was compelled by the exigencies of his trade to stencil them with so many different names that he forgot his own. And one day, while suffering from loss of memory in this regard, he signed a name not his own to a check and was compelled to retire from business to Ossining-on-Hudson.

His father’s parting advice had been, “Never forget who you are, my boy!”