Lieut. D'Hubert went away.
He passed through the silent house, and congratulated himself upon the
dusk concealing his gory hands and scratched face from the passers-by.
But this story could by no means be concealed. He dreaded the discredit
and ridicule above everything, and was painfully aware of sneaking
through the back streets in the manner of a murderer. Presently the
sounds of a flute coming out of the open window of a lighted upstairs
room in a modest house interrupted his dismal reflections. It was being
played with a persevering virtuosity, and through the fioritures of the
tune one could hear the regular thumping of the foot beating time on the
floor.
Lieut. D'Hubert shouted a name, which was that of an army surgeon whom
he knew fairly well. The sounds of the flute ceased, and the musician
appeared at the window, his instrument still in his hand, peering into
the street.
"Who calls? You, D'Hubert? What brings you this way?"
He did not like to be disturbed at the hour when he was playing the
flute.
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