Chapter 25

           Foratleasttwentyminutestherewasnosound.Conchiswenttothebathroomandbacktohisroom.Thentherewassilence.ItwentonsolongthatIundressedandstartedtogiveintothesleepIcouldfeelcomingonme.Butthesilencewasbroken.Hisdooropenedandclosed,quietly,butnotsecretively,andIheardhimgoingdownthestairs.Aminute,twominutespassed;thenIsatupandswungoutofbed.Itwasmusicagain,butfromdownstairs,theharpsichord.Itechoed,percussivebutdim,throughthestonehouse.ForafewmomentsIfeltdisappointment.ItseemedmerelythatConchiswassleepless,orsad,andplayingtohimself.Butthentherewasasoundthatsentmeswiftlytothedoor.Icautiouslyopenedit.Thedownstairsdoormustalsohavebeenopen,becauseIcouldheartheclatteroftheharpsichordmechanism.Butthethingthatsentashiverupmybackwasthethin,hauntedpipingofarecorder.Iknewitwasnotonagramophone;someonewasplayingit.Themusicstoppedandwentoninabriskersix-eightrhythm.Therecorderpipedsolemnlyalong,madeamistake,thenanother;thoughtheplayerwasevidentlyquiteskilled,andexecutedprofessional-soundingtrillsandornaments.Iwentoutnakedontothelandingandlookedoverthebanisters.Therewasafaintradianceontheflooroutsidethemusicroom.Iwasprobablymeanttolisten,nottogodown;butthiswastoomuch.Ipulledonasweaterandtrousersandcreptdownthestairsinmyrubber-soledbeachshoes.TherecorderstoppedandIheardtherustleofpaperbeingturnedthemusicstand.

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