Our Lady of Darkness by Bernard Capes — Read

During the short course of his restoration to vigour, Mr Murk, indulging that power of self-abstraction that was constitutionally at his command, gave himself no further concern about his uncle's affairs, paramorous or political. His resolving of the Chevalier d'Eon's little riddle of intrigue was, perhaps, an achievement less remarkable than it appeared to be. His own knowledge of my lord's partial boon-companionship with the Prime Minister at Putney, and the notoriety of a particular kind that attached to the chevalier's name, coupled with the more or less perilous gossip he had heard abroad, had winged the shaft that had -- something to his surprise -- struck so near home. Now (having proved to his satisfaction his own percipience), in the conviction that the artifice of this _intrigante_ was destined to procure of itself nothing but a political abortion, he rested tranquilly, and devoted his spare -- which was all but his meal -- time to trying to play the harp.

This was a mournful misapplication of energy. He had never known but one tune -- the "Young Shepherd by love sore opprest," which he would intone in moments of exaltation. Now he could not reconcile it to the practical intervals of performance, but was fain to introduce crippling variations in his hunt for the befitting string. It was the merest game of disharmonic spillikins, the contemplation of which affected his landlord almost to tears, and to any such enigmatical protest as the following: