Follow a Stranger

Pyrakis turned to Marc, enquiringly. “Why does she

think that, my friend?”

Marc shrugged. “We told her she would have to prove

herself before we agreed. We did not say she could not

try.”

Pyrakis nodded and looked at Kate again. “You must

make her work, little one. Be cruel, be ruthless, but make

her work.” Then he stood up, flexing his fingers. “Now I

shall play to you.”

He walked to the great piano which dominated one side

of the shadowy room, lifted the lid and laid his hands on

the keys, flat, unmoving.

She had seen this odd trick of his before, at London

concerts. He said it was because he wanted to feel the

piano before he began to play it, to sense the willingness

of the keys.

He lifted his hands again and then broke into a series

of fast, dizzying chords which startled her and were

totally new to her ear.

“This is his own,” Marc whispered.

Pyrakis played for an hour, totally absorbed, as though

he had forgotten them, his untiring hands wrenching

brilliant response from the piano.

When he stopped playing and swung round to face

them, Kate was trembling with excitement. She could not

speak, but her face spoke for her.

“I must go now, for my siesta,” Pyrakis said. “You will

lunch with me afterwards?”

“I’m sorry,” Marc apologised, “but I have just noticed

the sky. A storm is in the offing. We must make a dash