Leaning back in an iron chair, with his shoulders resting against the oak,

was another man, altogether a different type. He was frowning over the

pages of Bagot's Italian Lakes, and he wasn't making much headway. He

was Italian to the core, for all that he aped the English style and

manner. He could speak the tongue with fluency, but he stumbled and

faltered miserably over the soundless type. His clothes had the Piccadilly

cut, and his mustache, erstwhile waxed and militant, was cropped at the

corners, thoroughly insular. He was thirty, and undeniably handsome.

Near the fountain, on the green, was a third man. He was in the act of

folding up an easel and a camp-stool.

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The tea-drinkers had gone. It was time for the first bell for dinner. The

villa's omnibus was toiling up the winding road among the grape-vines.

Suddenly Harrigan tilted his head sidewise, and the long silken ears of

the dachel stirred. The Italian slowly closed his book and permitted his

chair to settle on its four legs. The artist stood up from his paintbox.

From a window in the villa came a voice; only a lilt of a melody, no

words,--half a dozen bars from Martha; but every delightful note went

deep into the three masculine hearts. Harrigan smiled and patted the dog.

The Italian scowled at the vegetable garden directly below. The artist

scowled at the Italian.

"Fritz, Fritz; here, Fritz!"

The dog struggled in Harrigan's hands and tore himself loose. He went

clattering over the path toward the villa and disappeared into the

doorway. Nothing could keep him when that voice called. He was as ardent a

lover as any, and far more favored.

"Oh, you funny little dog! You merry little dachel! Fritz, mustn't; let

go!" Silence.

The artist knew that she was cuddling the puppy to her heart, and his own

grew twisted. He stooped over his materials again and tied the box to the

easel and the stool, and shifted them under his arm.

"I'll be up after dinner, Mr. Harrigan," he said.

"All right, Abbott." Harrigan waved his hand pleasantly. He was becoming

so used to the unvarying statement that Abbott would be up after dinner,

that his reply was by now purely mechanical. "She's getting her voice back

all right; eh?"

"Beautifully! But I really don't think she ought to sing at the Haines'

villa Sunday."

"One song won't hurt her. She's made up her mind to sing. There's nothing

for us to do but to sit tight. No news from Paris?"

"No."

"Say, do you know what I think?"

"What?"

"Some one has come across to the police."

"Paris is not New York, Mr. Harrigan."

"Oh, I don't know. There's a hundred cents to the dollar, my boy, Paris or

New York. Why haven't they moved? They can't tell me that tow-headed

chap's alibi was on the level. I wish I'd been in Paris. There'd been

something doing. And who was he? They refuse to give his name. And I can't

get a word out of Nora. Shuts me up with a bang when I mention it. Throws

her nerves all out, she says. I'd like to get my hands on the

blackguard."




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