"What, boxes?"

"A tough 'un. I had a corporal who beat any one in Northern India.

Courtlandt put on the gloves with him and had him begging in the third

round."

"I never knew that before. He's as full of surprises as a rummage bag."

Courtlandt walked up the street leisurely, idly pausing now and then

before the shop-windows. Apparently he had neither object nor destination;

yet his mind was busy, so busy in fact that he looked at the various

curios without truly seeing them at all. A delicate situation, which

needed the lightest handling, confronted him. He must wait for an overt

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act, then he might proceed as he pleased. How really helpless he was! He

could not force her hand because she held all the cards and he none. Yet

he was determined this time to play the game to the end, even if the task

was equal to all those of Hercules rolled into one, and none of the gods

on his side.

At the hotel he asked for his mail, and was given a formidable packet

which, with a sigh of discontent, he slipped into a pocket, strolled out

into the garden by the water, and sat down to read. To his surprise there

was a note, without stamp or postmark. He opened it, mildly curious to

learn who it was that had discovered his presence in Bellaggio so quickly.

The envelope contained nothing more than a neatly folded bank-note for one

hundred francs. He eyed it stupidly. What might this mean? He unfolded it

and smoothed it out across his knee, and the haze of puzzlement drifted

away. Three bars from La Bohème. He laughed. So the little lady of the

Taverne Royale was in Bellaggio!




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