Avon Fantasy Reader No. 13 — page 46: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

It was in the spring of 1900, I remember, that Dr. Johns and I attended one of Hoorne’s concerts in New York. I know we were both proud, as we sat in that huge, enthusiastic audience, to feel we were the closest friends of such a man, | Norton Hoorne was at this time at the very pinnacle of his fame. He was about thirty-five years of age—a most picturesque figure, tall and straight, with very black wavy hair slightly touched with gray at the temples. His features were strong—almost rugged. Yet his mouth was sensitive as a girl’s, and his face, for all its sturdy strength, was the face of a poet. He had never married, but lived alone in his luxurious studio on Riverside Drive with an old housekeeper who was devoted to him. ee Hoorne was unquestionably a great artist. But we knew him also as a great man—a man big mentally, physically and spiritually; had he been other- wise the events I am about to relate might have been less inexplicable. I think it was hardly two or three days after the concert that Dr. Johns called me up one morning shortly after breakfast. “Something has happened,” he explained hurriedly. “Norton’s house- keeper has just phoned me. Will you come right up to his studio?” Then he hung up without waiting for me to reply. © 3 When I arrived I was ushered in at once by the frightened housekeeper. She took me immediately to the studio and I found Dr. Johns already there. He led me across the room without a word and pointed to the grand piano that stood in a corner by the window. On the bench before it sat Norton Hoorne, his body sprawled forward over the keyboard of the instrument. How curious it is, that in moments of great mental stress little details im- press themselves upon one’s mind that in other times would pass unnoticed! I can remember the scene in Hoorne’s studio that morning as though it — had happened yesterday. It was-a luxurious room, in perfect order now as always. Large French windows opened onto the Drive, and by the piano stood a many-pillowed divan where frequently I had lain and listened to Hoorne’s playing. > : Dr. John’s had arrived but a short while before, and now in a few words he told me what had happened as far as he knew it. Hoorne was not dead as I had supposed by my first hurried glance, but was in a most extraordi- nary state of catalepsy. There was absolutely no sign of life except in so far as there was also no positive sign of death. Both pulse and respiration ap- parently had ceased. , | _ We lifted our friend from his position at the piano and laid him prone upon the divan. Dr. Johns had not wanted to move him, he said, until I ar- rived. [| had a dozen horrified questions to ask, but he would have none of them. I could see by his manner that he knew, or suspected, the cause of Hoorne’s condition. And because he wished it so, | questioned no more, but helped him with his further examination. : When we had finished, at his request, ] summoned the housekeeper. The poor woman came at once; she was frightened almost out of her wits and was crying softly. : 44 Comicaoo (E(0)