The automobile that had carried her away had not been her own, and the

chauffeur was unknown. None of the directors at the Opera had been

notified of any change in the singer's plans. She had disappeared, and

they were deeply concerned. Singers were generally erratic, full of sudden

indispositions, unaccountable whims; but the Signorina da Toscana was one

in a thousand. She never broke an engagement. If she was ill she said so

at once; she never left them in doubt until the last moment. Indecision

was not one of her characteristics. She was as reliable as the sun. If the

directors did not hear definitely from her by noon to-day, they would have

to find another Marguerite.

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The police began to move, and they stirred up some curious bits of

information. A man had tried to bribe the singer's chauffeur, while she

was singing at the Austrian ambassador's. The chauffeur was able to

describe the stranger with some accuracy. Then came the bewildering

episode in the apartment: the pistol-shot, the flight of the man, the

astonished concierge to whom the beautiful American would offer no

explanations. The man (who tallied with the description given by the

chauffeur) had obtained entrance under false representations. He claimed

to be an emissary with important instructions from the Opera. There was

nothing unusual in this; messengers came at all hours, and seldom the same

one twice; so the concierge's suspicions had not been aroused. Another

item. A tall handsome Italian had called at eleven o'clock Saturday

morning, but the signorina had sent down word that she could not see him.

The maid recalled that her mistress had intended to dine that night with

the Italian gentleman. His name she did not know, having been with the

signorina but two weeks.

Celeste Fournier, the celebrated young pianist and composer, who shared

the apartment with the missing prima donna, stated that she hadn't the

slightest idea where her friend was. She was certain that misfortune had

overtaken her in some inexplicable manner. To implicate the Italian was

out of the question. He was well-known to them both. He had arrived again

at seven, Saturday, and was very much surprised that the signorina had not

yet returned. He had waited till nine, when he left, greatly disappointed.

He was the Barone di Monte-Verdi in Calabria, formerly military attaché at

the Italian embassy in Berlin. Sunday noon Mademoiselle Fournier had

notified the authorities. She did not know, but she felt sure that the

blond stranger knew more than any one else. And here was the end of

things. The police found themselves at a standstill. They searched the

hotels but without success; the blond stranger could not be found.

Abbott's eyes were not happy and pleasant just now. They were dull and

blank with the reaction of the stunning blow. He, too, was certain of the

Barone. Much as he secretly hated the Italian, he knew him to be a

fearless and an honorable man. But who could this blond stranger be who

appeared so sinisterly in the two scenes? From where had he come? Why had

Nora refused to explain about the pistol-shot? Any woman had a perfect

right to shoot a man who forced his way into her apartment. Was he one of

those mad fools who had fallen in love with her, and had become desperate?

Or was it some one she knew and against whom she did not wish to bring any

charges? Abducted! And she might be, at this very moment, suffering all

sorts of indignities. It was horrible to be so helpless.




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