From The Best Stories of Wilbur Daniel Steele 1946 When Christopher Kain told me his story, sitting late in his dressing room at the Philharmonic, I felt that I ought to say something, but nothing in .the world seemed adequate. It was one of those times when words have no weight; mine sounded like a fly buzzing in the tomb of kings. And after all, he did not hear me; I could tell that by the look on his face as he sat there staring into the light, the lank, dark hair framing his waxen brow, his shoulders hanging forward, his lean, strong, sentient fingers wrapped around the brown neck of "Ugo," the 'cello, tightly.