The sparkle of the sunlight upon the ferrule of a cane, extending over his

shoulder, broke in on his agonizing thoughts. He turned, an angry word on

the tip of his tongue. He expected to see some tourist who wanted to be

informed.

"Ted Courtlandt!" He jumped up, overturning the stool. "And where the

dickens did you come from? I thought you were in the Orient?"

"Just got back, Abby."

The two shook hands and eyed each other with the appraising scrutiny of

friends of long standing.

"You don't change any," said Abbott.

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"Nor do you. I've been standing behind you fully two minutes. What were

you glooming about? Old Silenus offend you?"

"Have you read the Herald this morning?"

"I never read it nowadays. They are always giving me a roast of some kind.

Whatever I do they are bound to misconstrue it." Courtlandt stooped and

righted the stool, but sat down on the grass, his feet in the path.

"What's the trouble? Have they been after you?"

Abbott rescued the offending paper and shaking it under his friend's nose,

said: "Read that."

Courtlandt's eyes widened considerably as they absorbed the significance

of the heading--"Eleonora da Toscana missing."

"Bah!" he exclaimed.

"You say bah?"

"It looks like one of their advertising dodges. I know something about

singers," Courtlandt added. "I engineered a musical comedy once."

"You do not know anything about her," cried Abbott hotly.

"That's true enough." Courtlandt finished the article, folded the paper

and returned it, and began digging in the path with his cane.

"But what I want to know is, who the devil is this mysterious blond

stranger?" Abbott flourished the paper again. "I tell you, it's no

advertising dodge. She's been abducted. The hound!"

Courtlandt ceased boring into the earth. "The story says that she refused

to explain this blond chap's presence in her room. What do you make of

that?"

"Perhaps you think the fellow was her press-agent?" was the retort.

"Lord, no! But it proves that she knew him, that she did not want the

police to find him. At least, not at that moment. Who's the Italian?"

suddenly.

"I can vouch for him. He is a gentleman, honorable as the day is long,

even if he is hot-headed at times. Count him out of it. It's this unknown,

I tell you. Revenge for some imagined slight. It's as plain as the nose on

your face."

"How long have you known her?" asked Courtlandt presently.

"About two years. She's the gem of the whole lot. Gentle, kindly,

untouched by flattery.... Why, you must have seen and heard her!"

"I have." Courtlandt stared into the hole he had dug. "Voice like an

angel's, with a face like Bellini's donna; and Irish all over. But for all

that, you will find that her disappearance will turn out to be a diva's

whim. Hang it, Suds, I've had some experience with singers."




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