rtlandt 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 Boheme_, 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 sere