s such a thing as a broken heart, and the
girl has it."

"Then Heaven help Giovanni and the man who caused this!"

CHAPTER XVIII

THE ARIA FROM IL TROVATORE

"Shall we take a look into the Campo Formosa again to-night?" asked
Merrihew, stepping into the gondola.

"It will be a waste of time. Bettina will have warned them. What's the
Italian coming to, anyhow? She refused a hundred francs. But I can see
that Mrs. Sandford had a hand in this latest event. She has probably
written that we might look for them in the Campo." Hillard spoke in a
discontented tone. "Oh, bother the both of them! Let us loaf round the
barges of the serenaders and hear the singing. I want to be amused
to-night."

"All right; we'll listen to the music," grumbled Merrihew. He wanted to
find Kitty right away. He would gladly have started out and explored
every Campo in Venice that night. Hillard's indifference annoyed him.

"To the barges of the troupes!" said Hillard to Achille, who pushed off
with a series of short strokes.

In the great canal of San Marco the scene was like a water-carnival.
Hundreds of gondolas, with bobbing lights, swam slowly round the barges
of the serenaders, who, for the most part, were fallen operatic stars or
those who had failed to attain those dizzy heights. Many of them had
good voices, but few of them last long in the damp Venetian night air.
To-night there were three of these belanterned barges, taking their
stands about three hundred yards apart. The glowing coals of cigarettes
and cigars of the men in the gondolas were like low-lying stars, and the
cold, bright flash of jewels woke here and there among the many
beautifully gowned women. From one barge to another the gondolas
drifted, finally clustering round the middle barge of the Troupe San
Marco, which offered the best voices. Between songs a man of acrobatic
accomplishments would jump nimbly from the prow of one gondola to
another, stepping lightly here, balancing neatly there, and always with
the upturned tambourine extended for silver and copper largess.

Merrihew sat in the bottom of the gondola, while Hillard lay sprawled
across the cushions on the seat. The prima donna was singing the
jewel-song from Faust, and not badly. Sometimes the low hum of voices
floated across the cadence of the song. Merrihew scanned the faces of
all those near him, but never a face took on familiar lines. An Adriatic
liner loomed up gray and shadowy behind them,