d that she would return in time to dress
for dinner, which proved conclusively that something out of the ordinary
had befallen her.

The automobile that had carried her away had not been her own, and the
chauffeur was unknown. None of the directors at the Opera had been
notified of any change in the singer's plans. She had disappeared, and
they were deeply concerned. Singers were generally erratic, full of sudden
indispositions, unaccountable whims; but the Signorina da Toscana was one
in a thousand. She never broke an engagement. If she was ill she said so
at once; she never left them in doubt until the last moment. Indecision
was not one of her characteristics. She was as reliable as the sun. If the
directors did not hear definitely from her by noon to-day, they would have
to find another Marguerite.

The police began to move, and they stirred up some curious bits of
information. A man had tried to bribe the singer's chauffeur, while she
was singing at the Austrian ambassador's. The chauffeur was able to
describe the stranger with some accuracy. Then came the bewildering
episode in the apartment: the pistol-shot, the flight of the man, the
astonished concierge to whom the beautiful American would offer no
explanations. The man (who tallied with the description given by the
chauffeur) had obtained entrance under false representations. He claimed
to be an emissary with important instructions from the Opera. There was
nothing unusual in this; messengers came at all hours, and seldom the same
one twice; so the concierge's suspicions had not been aroused. Another
item. A tall handsome Italian had called at eleven o'clock Saturday
morning, but the signorina had sent down word that she could not see him.
The maid recalled that her mistress had intended to dine that night with
the Italian gentleman. His name she did not know, having been with the
signorina but two weeks.

Celeste Fournier, the celebrated young pianist and composer, who shared
the apartment with the missing prima donna, stated that she hadn't the
slightest idea where her friend was. She was certain that misfortune had
overtaken her in some inexplicable manner. To implicate the Italian was
out of the question. He was well-known to them both. He had arrived again
at seven, Saturday, and was very much surprised that the signorina had not
yet returned. He had waited till nine, when he left, greatly disappointed.
He was the Barone di Monte-Verdi in Calabria, form