’ ‘Oh, yes I do,’ Martha said, getting up off the bed. She seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The door leaned inward. Wood became sensible that he was not alone. “I’m not the Devil. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. Reconnoitring them through a small grated loophole, he refused to open the door till they had explained their business.
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