"Why, Naida, what do you think?
It's Mr.Moffat.

How beautifully he plays!" Naida, her face pressed against the other window, gave vent to a single note of half-suppressed laughter.

"There 's going to be something happening," she exclaimed.

"Oh, Miss Spencer, come here quick--some one is going to turn on the hydraulic." Miss Spencer knelt beside her.

Moffat was still plainly visible, his pale face upturned in the moonlight, his long silky mustaches slightly stirred by the soft air, his fingers touching the strings; but back in the shadows of the bushes was seen another figure, apparently engaged upon some task with feverish eagerness.