Frank froze, and stayed immobile, holding his breath, as the man continued to grip his arm, but when his captor began to turn him around, Frank spun into the turn, and lashed out with one foot, catching the man in the ankle and causing him to cry out in pain. The grip on Frank’s arm loosened, and he broke free. He started running, heading for the front door, but before he could even reach the other side of the room, his adversary lunged after him and tackled him to the floor.

Frank grunted at the impact, but twisted and kicked out sharply again, trying to escape the man’s hold on him long enough to gain the front door – and freedom. Of course I’ll have to get over the wall, and into my car before I’m caught, he realized bleakly, but I’ll worry about that when I get there!

Managing to struggle free once more, Frank made another break for the door – and skidded to a halt. Standing directly in front of him was an old man – and that elderly man was holding a gun trained directly on the elder Hardy boy!

Frank froze in his tracks, and the first man came up behind him and yanked his arms behind his back.

"So…" the old man remarked calmly. "You must be the other Hardy brother. You have been quite a bit of trouble for me and my family."

"I’m Frank Hardy," Frank conceded.

"Why was it that you disregarded all of the warnings that were sent, young man? Surely you have some common sense, don’t you?"

Frank shrugged. "I don’t give up that easily. Neither does my brother Joe. Not when a friend is involved, or someone is hurt. You took something that didn’t belong to you – something that belongs to a friend of ours. That was bad enough – but even worse, you hurt my brother, doing it. That’s what you’re going to pay for—"

"Pah!" The elderly man shrugged in his turn, continuing to hold the gun steadily, amazingly level for such an old guy, Frank noted. Behind him, the other man was busily tying Frank’s hands together behind his back, with what felt like packing cord. Frank grimaced as he felt the cord cutting into his wrists; whoever was doing the tying was very good at it. He wondered just how much experience the fellow had had at this sort of thing before!

The old man motioned with his gun toward the hallway, and Frank obediently moved in that direction. He was led back to the lavish living room, where he was instructed to sit down on the ornate couch. Another light was switched on, and Frank, looking around curiously, was once again struck with the feeling that he had stepped into a museum. He was surrounded by priceless objects of antiquity. This guy is a serious collector…and I wonder just how much of it he owns – legally!

Looking directly at the old man for the first time – prior to this, Frank’s attention had been trained on the gun – the boy abruptly realized who this man was…or, rather, and more importantly, who he was related to. Had to be related to…for all he was much older than the man who had originally been presented with the priceless viola in Austria.

Jakob Steiner. Zacary Stein. Zacary Stein-ER. Yes, things were making more sense, now.

"You took all of them, didn’t you?" Frank asked, quietly, staring into the deep-set, cold blue eyes of the old man. "You took the harp, the cello, and the string bass. And Allison’s violin. You’re missing the viola—"

"You talk too much!" The man’s eyes went flinty, and he raised the gun again. "Maybe you shouldn’t talk so much about things you don’t understand!"

Keep him talking…make him explain. Use some time, Hardy, use some time! "Will you help me understand, then?" Frank asked gently. "I’ll try to understand. If you tell me, maybe I would."

The man gazed at him silently for some moments, apparently considering whether or not to accede to Frank’s request. While he pondered, Frank became aware of other eyes on them – the man who had tied him up, and another person – Zacary Stein, looking scared, but defiant.

"I am Ernst Steiner," the old man said, at last. "And this is my son, Peter. My grandson Zacary, I believe you have seen before. The viola originally belonged to my father, Jakob Steiner. He was presented it by the Archduke of Austria himself, and he played it nobly and honorably for nearly thirty years. It was a most beautiful period – I can remember it still, hearing my father play to me when I was small. It was a magical time. I grew up with dreams of one day taking up my father’s viola to play as well – to be as good as he was, and to receive as many accolades."

He paused briefly, evidently caught up in his memories.

"My father managed to keep the viola safe, through the first Great War. And somehow, despite all the desperate times in Europe following, to keep it for many years after that, still playing, still bringing cheer to those who heard. After the War, before the great depression hit Austria, there was a grand tour with him and the other four. It was a most successful tour; they played in many countries, for many people. And everywhere they went, they were revered and honored for their skill."

Frank yawned, involuntarily. "Sorry – excuse me," he apologized. "Your story is fascinating, really. It’s just that I didn’t get much sleep last night…I was with my brother, at the hospital," he added, staring grimly at his captor.

Ernst Steiner narrowed his eyes. "You asked to hear, and you will listen to the rest of the story – and know the truth of all things."

"Yes, I will," Frank hastened to agree, and tried his best to stifle further yawns, for all he was very, very tired.

The old man took up the tale once more: "The grand tour ended in 1930. It had lasted a full year, a long time. During that time, I saw little of my father, naturally. We were nearly destitute, because of the terrible economic times. The great stock market crash of 1929, in the United States was exacerbated in Austria by the fall of the Hapsburg Monarchy, which caused the banks to crash. And yet, through it all, there was my father and his fellow musicians, playing their wondrous music, bringing brightness and cheer. To bring happiness to our country they went one last time to Vienna, the greatest of musical cities ever to exist in this world! And it was there – there, in that musical capital! – that one of the other four broke my father’s prized instrument! His prize, won as theirs were won – broken, shattered, destroyed! And it deprived me of my long-held childhood dream. We could not afford another – it was all we could do to survive!"

Despite his weariness, Frank was becoming fascinated by this story. Ernst Steiner spoke in a lilting accent that made listening easy, and Frank could almost see the touring musicians as they traveled about the continent.

"We left Austria before the Nazis came," Steiner continued. "and moved first to Switzerland, and then here to America. But through it all, I knew my course. Even when we had money again, when we had the means to live, I knew what I would do. The others must pay – pay for what they had deprived me of! I have regained what is rightfully mine. And I will not give them up."

Frank was stunned. He could scarcely believe the old man’s calm insistence that he had only taken what rightfully belonged to him. Total obsession… his mind ticked. Total fixation on this one goal….

"How long have you had the other instruments?" Frank asked, aloud.

The old man smiled, evidently enjoying speaking of his precious instruments. "The harp, I got first – and quite legally, I might add. Arnolde Raich, the original owner, had to sell it during the depression, to feed his family. I was later able to buy it quite easily from the person who had originally purchased it, and that formed the beginning of the collection. The others," he admitted candidly, "I had to steal."

Frank gave a brief nod, not making any audible comment. He’s got enough money to buy anything he might want. now… the boy’s mind ticked on. Stealing them must have been a thrill, somehow….

"First the string bass," Steiner recalled. "It was taken when it was being transported to the U.S. for a display, back in the 1950’s, when security was lax. And then the cello in the 70’s. I finally tracked down the owner, Lesimik, and my son Julian was able to take it from his house. The violin has been the most difficult – it took me some great time to find it, and to arrange to obtain it, for the girl who inherited it kept it very close to her. It was much luck that my grandson was able to join the same orchestra as she – for it gave me a way to obtain the instrument that was rightfully mine. You do see, young man, do you not, that I am taking only what belongs to me? I haven’t taken any other instruments, nor do I intend to."

Frank moved his hands experimentally, testing his bonds, and winced as the cord dug into his wrists even more. "I don’t see it quite the same way, Mr. Steiner. And how did Zacary get involved in this, anyway?" He glanced quickly at the boy, who dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Zacary’s parents, my son Jon and his wife, were killed in an automobile accident when Zacary was very small," Ernst Steiner explained. "He was raised by me and his two uncles, Peter and Julian."

Brainwashed from the cradle, Frank thought grimly. "Mr. Steiner, do you have certain knowledge that one of the other musicians was responsible for damaging the viola? Isn’t that just a guess on your part? You don’t really have any proof."

"I don’t need proof; my father didn’t need proof," Steiner spat. "We knew the truth of it for ourselves!"

Frank wished he could go back in time and find out what had really happened. Now, it was a little late to discover the true facts of the matter – 70 years too late!

"Could I ask about one more thing?" he ventured. "My brother…"

Steiner tsk-d, shaking his head. "That one! What a lot of trouble he caused! We found him in the yard, after he broke one of my trees! He was unconscious, his head cut. I thought it was just a common prowler, a thief – but Zacary recognized him!"

Frank shot a look at Zacary, who glanced up guiltily.

"I had seen him Friday night, after the concert," he muttered.

"We did not cause his hurt," the old man told Frank. "And Julian and Peter put him in his car and took him where he would be found."

"What about the Rohypnol?" Frank gritted. "Was that not ‘causing him hurt’?"

Steiner shrugged dismissively. "It was just a precaution. We didn’t wish for him to remember being here at all, and Julian assured me it would do him no lasting harm."

No lasting harm! Frank thought of Joe, lying still and white in the critical care unit of the hospital, with no one able to say for certain whether or not he would recover. Anger bubbled up in him.

"He may never wake up again!" he snapped, and saw both Zacary and his grandfather look startled…and guilty…in response. But the moment passed rapidly.

"That outcome was unintentional," the old man murmured. "And now, I must do something about you," Steiner said, fixing Frank with a stern eye. "It pains me to have to cause harm to anyone, but I will not allow you to take what I have worked so long and hard to acquire. You will have to be my guest for a little while – just a little while, until I can gain more of that drug which causes people to forget…or until I come up with some better way to keep you from telling what you know," he added thoughtfully. "Peter—" he beckoned to the man, who was evidently his son, and Frank was pulled to his feet. Ernst Steiner handed his gun to the other man, who pointed it at Frank and gestured toward the door.

"Rohypnol isn’t going to make me forget what happened!" Frank said, remaining where he was. What did this guy think, it was some sort of wonder drug? Just swallow it and you’ll forget everything….

"Then we will have to find a more effective way of silencing you." Steiner replied coldly, and motioned for his son to take Frank from the room.

"Zacary – you don’t want Allison to lose her violin, do you?" Frank made one quick appeal to the boy, who stared at him with miserable dark eyes…and then turned away without answering.

After that, Frank went along obediently. I just have to wait until midnight, when Phil calls in the cavalry! He kept his face blank, careful not to give any hint of what was going to happen; careful not to tip his hand.

Peter escorted him downstairs to the basement of the mansion, and led him to a room containing a bed, but little else. He seated Frank on the bed, and tied his wrists securely to the frame. Frank flinched slightly at the cruel bite of the cords; Peter Steiner either had a sadistic streak, or didn’t realize how tightly he had bound the boy.

"Mr. Steiner," he ventured, "why are you doing this? You’re not a criminal, and surely you must realize what your father is doing is wrong! Stealing the instruments was one thing, but now you’ve added what happened with my brother, and holding me prisoner, and—"

Peter Steiner held up a hand to silence him. Frank could see the desperation growing in the man’s blue eyes, see the worried lines furrowing the grim face.

"Nothing I can do about it," he muttered. "It’s too important to Dad. It would kill him to give them up." He narrowed his eyes at Frank. "Where’s Julian?" he demanded, abruptly.

Frank blinked at him in total incomprehension. "I have no idea," he said honestly. Steiner peered closely at him, evidently suspecting a lie, but Frank met his gaze without flinching. "I really don’t know," he reiterated. "I’ve never seen your brother, as far as I know." Inside, he wondered too – where was Julian Steiner? Had something more happened, while Frank had been chasing Zacary and watching the Steiner estate, all afternoon and evening?

Steiner grumbled something beneath his breath, and pulled a large bandana handkerchief from a hip pocket. Before Frank quite realized what was happening, he found himself swiftly gagged. He glared hotly at his captor over the folds of cloth, but Peter Steiner seemed unfazed by his hostility.

"I’m sorry to do this to you," Peter told Frank as he left, "but I’m not about to betray my father now." He walked to the stairs, turned off the lights, and Frank was left alone in the dark.