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."