It was the means whereby he raised himself to adventure and to pilgrimage, to love and license and loot and spying and secret service here and there in the east of Europe.

It was the flagellation of these senses which excited him to do all that man may do and more.
He was going to play to the masterful Gorgio, and he would play as he had never played before.

He would pour the soul of his purpose into the music--to win back or steal back, the lass sealed to him by the Starzke River.
"Kismet!" he said aloud, and he rose from the chair to go to the violin, but as he did so the door opened and Ingolby entered.
"Oh, you're here, and longing to get at it," he said pleasantly.
He had seen the look in the eyes of the Romany as he entered, and noted which way his footsteps were tending.

"Well, we needn't lose any time, but will you have a drink and a smoke first ?" he added.
He threw his hat in a corner, and opened a spirittable where shone a half dozen cut-glass, tumblers and several well-filled bottles, while boxes of cigars and cigarettes flanked them.

It was the height of modern luxury imported from New York, and Jethro eyed it with envious inward comment.