Then she stepped away and dried her eyes. “You are, I suppose, responsible for the delayed start?”

He smiled. “You deduced that.”

She nodded.

“Well, there is a security problem.”

“No! What?” She looked out into the crowded hall.

“Not to them,” he said. “A risk to your heart.”

“What do you mean?”

“You lost your Bela Szepessy at my flat. I’m responsible.”

“Harold, please . . . ”

“You could play on a child’s toy and make angels weep. But I thought you should have an instrument worthy of your talent. I’ve borrowed one for you to use until your Bela is repaired. I asked the management for a delay to let you get used to it.”

He handed her a package. She opened it up. And gasped.

“It’s not . . . oh, my God!” She was holding a violin made by Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesu—the same instrument she’d been listening to in Harold’s flat, when she was kidnapped. Only three hundred or so still exist throughout the world, half the number of those made by the famed Stradivarius. You couldn’t find a Guarneri for under a million dollars.

Playing an instrument like this just once—a dream of all violinists.

“How, Harold? They’re impossible even to find.”

“I made a new friend in the course of the case. A civil servant, believe it or not, but he leads a rather posh life, to use one of his words. He made a few phone calls . . . My only request is that you don’t brain any kidnappers with it.”

“What is ‘brain’? Oh, you mean, hit anyone with it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll only use cricket bats for that from now on, Harold.”

“So, go tune up or do whatever you have to do. The audience is getting restless.”

Felicia held the fragrant wood in her hands, light as a bird. “Oh, Harold.” She took the bow from the case and tightened the horsehair strands and plucked the keys, which she found perfectly tuned and at concert pitch.

She turned to thank him again.

But he was gone.

After ten minutes of practice, she was aware of the houselights dimming again. The orchestra walked on stage and then the conductor. Finally Felicia, the soloist, entered to even louder applause.

She bowed to the audience and then to the conductor and the other players and took her place stage left.

The conductor tapped his baton, leaned forward and the concerto began. As she counted the measures, waiting for her cue, Felicia surveyed the hall.

Finally she saw them, two dozen rows back. Charley, Harold, and Nora Tesla, whose hand he was holding. She gave Harold a slight smile and, despite the spotlight in her eyes, she believed he smiled back.

Then the orchestra’s part grew softer, signaling the approach of hers. She lifted the priceless instrument to her chin.