"Who's Fournier?"
"Mademoiselle Fournier, the composer. She goes with Nora on the yearly
concert tours."
"Pretty?"
"Charming."
"I see," thoughtfully. "What part of the lake; the Villa d'Este,
Cadenabbia?"
"Bellaggio. Oh, it was ripping last summer. She's always singing when
she's happy. When she sings out on the terrace, suddenly, without giving
any one warning, her voice is wonderful. No audience ever heard anything
like it."
"I heard her Friday night. I dropped in at the Opera without knowing what
they were singing. I admit all you say in regard to her voice and looks;
but I stick to the whim."
"But you can't fake that chap with the blond mustache," retorted Abbott
grimly. "Lord, I wish I had run into you any day but to-day. I'm all in. I
can telephone to the Opera from the studio, and then we shall know for a
certainty whether or not she will return for the performance to-night. If
not, then I'm going in for a little detective work."
"Abby, it will turn out to be the sheep of Little Bo-Peep."
"Have your own way about it."
When they arrived at the studio Abbott telephoned promptly. Nothing had
been heard. They were substituting another singer.
"Call up the Herald," suggested Courtlandt.
Abbott did so. And he had to answer innumerable questions, questions which
worked him into a fine rage: who was he, where did he live, what did he
know, how long had he been in Paris, and could he prove that he had
arrived that morning? Abbott wanted to fling the receiver into the mouth
of the transmitter, but his patience was presently rewarded. The singer
had not yet been found, but the chauffeur of the mysterious car had turned
up ... in a hospital, and perhaps by night they would know everything. The
chauffeur had had a bad accident; the car itself was a total wreck, in a
ditch, not far from Versailles.
"There!" cried Abbott, slamming the receiver on the hook. "What do you say
to that?"
"The chauffeur may have left her somewhere, got drunk afterward, and
plunged into the ditch. Things have happened like that. Abby, don't make a
camel's-hair shirt out of your paint-brushes. What a pother about a
singer! If it had been a great inventor, a poet, an artist, there would
have been nothing more than a two-line paragraph. But an opera-singer, one
who entertains us during our idle evenings--ha! that's a different matter.
Set instantly that great municipal machinery called the police in action;
sell extra editions on the streets. What ado!"
"What the devil makes you so bitter?"
"Was I bitter? I thought I was philosophizing." Courtlandt consulted his
watch. Half after four. "Come over to the Maurice and dine with me
to-morrow night, that is, if you do not find your prima donna. I've an
engagement at five-thirty, and must be off."