with the melody she made, the girls found the situation piquant, altogether delightful.  Although she did not suspect it, many rumors were rife about Harmony in the workroom.  She was not of the people, they said—­the daughter of a great American, of course, run away to escape a loveless marriage.  This was borne out by the report of one of them who had glimpsed the silk petticoat.  It was rumored also that she wore no chemise, but instead an infinitely coquettish series of lace and nainsook garments—­of a fineness!

Harmony played for them that day, played, perhaps, as she had not played since the day she had moved the master to tears, played to Peter as she had seen him at the window, to Jimmy, to the little Georgiev as he went down the staircase.  And finally with a choke in her throat to the little mother back home, so hopeful, so ignorant.

In the evening, as was her custom, she took the one real meal of the day at the corner restaurant, going early to avoid the crowd and coming back quickly through the winter night.  The staircase was always a peril, to be encountered and conquered night after night and even in the daytime not to be lightly regarded.  On her way up this night she heard steps ahead, heavy, measured steps that climbed steadily without pauses.  For an instant Harmony thought it sounded like Peter’s step and she went dizzy.

But it was not Peter.  Standing in the upper hall, much as he had stood that morning over the ammunition boxes, thumbs in, heels in, toes out, chest out, was the sentry.

Harmony’s first thought was of Georgiev and more searching of the building.  Then she saw that the sentry’s impassive face wore lines of trouble.  He saluted.  “Please, Fraulein.”

“Yes?”

“I have not told the Herr Doktor.”

“I thank you.”

“But the child dies.”

“Jimmy?”

“He dies all of last night and to-day.  To-night, it is, perhaps, but of moments.”

Harmony clutched at the iron stair-rail for support.  “You are sure?  You are not telling me so that I will go back?”

“He dies, Fraulein.  The Herr Doktor has not slept for many hours.  My wife, Rosa, sits on the stair to see that none disturb, and her cousin, the wife of the Portier, weeps over the stove.  Please, Fraulein, come with me.”

“When did you leave the Siebensternstrasse?”

“But now.”

“And he still lives?”

“Ja, Fraulein, and asks for you.”

Now suddenly fell away from the girl all pride, all fear, all that was personal and small and frightened, before the reality of death.  She rose, as women by divine gift do rise, to the crisis; ceased trembling, got her hat and coat and her shabby gloves and joined the sentry again.  Another moment’s delay—­to secure the Le Grande’s address from Monia.  Then out into the night, Harmony to the Siebensternstrasse, the tall soldier to find the dancer at her hotel, or failing that, at the Ronacher Music-Hall.