The Place of Honeymoons. MacGrath Harold

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      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.

      “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.”

      “You are a blockhead!” exploded the younger man.

      “All right, I am.” Courtlandt laughed.

      “Man, she wrote me that she would sing Monday and to-night, and wanted me to hear her. I couldn’t get here in time for La Bohème, but I was building on Faust. And when she says a thing, she means it. As you said, she’s Irish.”

      “And I’m Dutch.”

      “And the stubbornest Dutchman I ever met. Why don’t you go home and settle down and marry? – and keep that phiz of yours out of the newspapers? Sometimes I think you’re as crazy as a bug.”

      “An opinion shared by many. Maybe I am. I dash in where lunatics fear to tread. Come on over to the Soufflet and have a drink with me.”

      “I’m not drinking to-day,” tersely. “There’s too much ahead for me to do.”

      “Going to start out to find her? Oh, Sir Galahad!” ironically. “Abby, you used to be a sport. I’ll wager a hundred against a bottle of pop that to-morrow or next day she’ll turn up serenely, with the statement that she was indisposed, sorry not to have notified the directors, and all that. They do it repeatedly every season.”

      “But an errand of mercy, the strange automobile which can not be found? The engagement to dine with the Barone? Celeste Fournier’s statement? You can’t get around these things. I tell you, Nora isn’t that kind. She’s too big in heart and mind to stoop to any such devices,” vehemently.

      “Nora! That looks pretty serious, Abby. You haven’t gone and made a fool of yourself, have you?”

      “What do you call making a fool of myself?” truculently.

      “You aren’t a suitor, are you? An accepted suitor?” unruffled, rather kindly.

      “No, but I would to heaven that I were!” Abbott jammed the newspaper into his pocket and slung the stool over his arm. “Come on over to the studio until I get some money.”

      “You are really going to start a search?”

      “I really am. I’d start one just as quickly for you, if I heard that you had vanished under mysterious circumstances.”

      “I believe you honestly would.”

      “You are an old misanthrope. I hope some woman puts the hook into you some day. Where did you pick up the grouch? Some of your dusky princesses give you the go-by?”

      “You, too, Abby?”

      “Oh, rot! Of course I never believed any of that twaddle. Only, I’ve got a sore head to-day. If you knew Nora as well as I do, you’d understand.”

      Courtlandt walked on a little ahead of the artist, who looked up and down the athletic form, admiringly. Sometimes he loved the man, sometimes he hated him. He marched through tragedy and comedy and thrilling adventure with no more concern that he evinced in striding through these gardens. Nearly every one had heard of his exploits; but who among them knew anything of the real man, so adroitly hidden under unruffled externals? That there was a man he did not know, hiding deep down within those powerful shoulders, he had not the least doubt. He himself possessed the quick mobile temperament of the artist, and СКАЧАТЬ