CHAPTER V

CAPTIVE OR RUNAWAY

At the age of twenty-six Donald Abbott had become a prosperous and

distinguished painter in water-colors. His work was individual, and at the

same time it was delicate and charming. One saw his Italian landscapes as

through a filmy gauze: the almond blossoms of Sicily, the rose-laden walls

of Florence, the vineyards of Chianti, the poppy-glowing Campagna out of

Rome. His Italian lakes had brought him fame. He knew very little of the

grind and hunger that attended the careers of his whilom associates. His

father had left him some valuable patents--wash-tubs, carpet-cleaners, and

other labor-saving devices--and the royalties from these were quite

sufficient to keep him pleasantly housed. When he referred to his father

(of whom he had been very fond) it was as an inventor. Of what, he rarely

told. In America it was all right; but over here, where these inventions

were unknown, a wash-tub had a peculiar significance: that a man should be

found in his money through its services left persons in doubt as to his

genealogical tree, which, as a matter of fact, was a very good one. As a

boy his schoolmates had dubbed him "The Sweep" and "Suds," and it was only

human that he should wish to forget.

His earnings (not inconsiderable, for tourists found much to admire in

both the pictures and the artist) he spent in gratifying his mild

extravagances. So there were no lines in his handsome, boyish, beardless

face; and his eyes were unusually clear and happy. Perhaps once or twice,

since his majority, he had returned to America to prove that he was not an

expatriate, though certainly he was one, the only tie existing between him

and his native land being the bankers who regularly honored his drafts.

And who shall condemn him for preferring Italy to the desolate center of

New York state, where good servants and good weather are as rare as are

flawless emeralds?

Half after three, on Wednesday afternoon, Abbott stared moodily at the

weather-tarnished group by Dalou in the Luxembourg gardens--the _Triumph

of Silenus_. His gaze was deceptive, for the rollicking old bibulous

scoundrel had not stirred his critical sense nor impressed the delicate

films of thought. He was looking through the bronze, into the far-away

things. He sat on his own folding stool, which he had brought along from

his winter studio hard by in the old Boul' Miche'. He had arrived early

that morning, all the way from Como, to find a thunderbolt driven in at

his feet. Across his knees fluttered an open newspaper, the Paris edition

of the New York _Herald_. All that kept it from blowing away was the tense

if sprawling fingers of his right hand; his left hung limply at his side.

It was not possible. Such things did not happen these unromantic days to

musical celebrities. She had written that on Monday night she would sing

in _La Boheme_ and on Wednesday, _Faust_. She had since vanished, vanished

as completely as though she had taken wings and flown away. It was unreal.

She had left the apartment in the Avenue de Wagram on Saturday afternoon,

and nothing had been seen or heard of her since. At the last moment they

had had to find a substitute for her part in the Puccini opera. The maid

testified that her mistress had gone on an errand of mercy. She had not

mentioned where, but she had said 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, formerly military attache at

the Italian embassy in Berlin. Sunday noon Mademoiselle Fournier had

notified the authorities. She did not know, but she felt sure that the

blond stranger knew more than any one else. And here was the end of

things. The police found themselves at a standstill. They searched the

hotels but without success; 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 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 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 he could penetrate but not

understand the poise assumed with such careless ease by his friend. Dutch

blood had something to do with it, and there was breeding, but there was

something more than these: he was a reversion, perhaps, to the type of man

which had made the rovers of the Lowlands feared on land and sea, now

hemmed in by convention, hampered by the barriers of progress, and

striving futilely to find an outlet for his peculiar energies. One bit of

knowledge gratified him; he stood nearer to Courtlandt than any other man.

He had known the adventurer as a boy, and long separations had in nowise

impaired the foundations of this friendship.

Courtlandt continued toward the exit, his head forward, his gaze bent on

the path. He had the air of a man deep in thought, philosophic thought,

which leaves the brows unmarred by those corrugations known as frowns. Yet

his thoughts were far from philosophic. Indeed, his soul was in mad

turmoil. He could have thrown his arms toward the blue sky and cursed

aloud the fates that had set this new tangle at his feet. He longed for

the jungles and some mad beast to vent his wrath upon. But he gave no

sign. He had returned with a purpose as hard and grim as iron; and no

obstacle, less powerful than death, should divert or control him.

Abduction? Let the public believe what it might; he held the key to the

mystery. She was afraid, and had taken flight. So be it.

"I say, Ted," called out the artist, "what did you mean by saying that you

were a Dutchman?"

Courtlandt paused so that Abbott might catch up to him. "I said that I was

a Dutchman?"

"Yes. And it has just occurred to me that you meant something."

"Oh, yes. You were talking of Da Toscana? Let's call her Harrigan. It will

save time, and no one will know to whom we refer. You said she was Irish,

and that when she said a thing she meant it. My boy, the Irish are

notorious for claiming that. They often say it before they see clearly.

Now, we Dutchmen,--it takes a long time for us to make up our minds, but

when we do, something has got to bend or break."

"You don't mean to say that you are going to settle down and get

married?"

"I'm not going to settle down and get married, if that will ease your mind

any."

"Man, I was hoping!"

"Three meals a day in the same house, with the same woman, never appealed

to me."

"What do you want, one for each meal?"

"There's the dusky princess peeking out again. The truth is, Abby, if I

could hide myself for three or four years, long enough for people to

forget me, I might reconsider. But it should be under another name. They

envy us millionaires. Why, we are the lonesomest duffers going. We

distrust every one; we fly when a woman approaches; we become monomaniacs;

one thing obsesses us, everybody is after our money. We want friends, we

want wives, but we want them to be attracted to us and not to our

money-bags. Oh, pshaw! What plans have you made in regard to the search?"

Gloom settled upon the artist's face. "I've got to find out what's

happened to her, Ted. This isn't any play. Why, she loves the part of

Marguerite as she loves nothing else. She's been kidnaped, and only God

knows for what reason. It has knocked me silly. I just came up from Como,

where she spends the summers now. I was going to take her and Fournier out

to dinner."

"Who's Fournier?"

"Mademoiselle Fournier, the composer. She goes with Nora on the yearly

concert tours."

"Pretty?"

"Charming."

"I see," thoughtfully. "What part of the lake; the Villa d'Este,

Cadenabbia?"

"Bellaggio. Oh, it was ripping last summer. She's always singing when

she's happy. When she sings out on the terrace, suddenly, without giving

any one warning, her voice is wonderful. No audience ever heard anything

like it."

"I heard her Friday night. I dropped in at the Opera without knowing what

they were singing. I admit all you say in regard to her voice and looks;

but I stick to the whim."

"But you can't fake that chap with the blond mustache," retorted Abbott

grimly. "Lord, I wish I had run into you any day but to-day. I'm all in. I

can telephone to the Opera from the studio, and then we shall know for a

certainty whether or not she will return for the performance to-night. If

not, then I'm going in for a little detective work."

"Abby, it will turn out to be the sheep of Little Bo-Peep."

"Have your own way about it."

When they arrived at the studio Abbott telephoned promptly. Nothing had

been heard. They were substituting another singer.

"Call up the _Herald_," suggested Courtlandt.

Abbott did so. And he had to answer innumerable questions, questions which

worked him into a fine rage: who was he, where did he live, what did he

know, how long had he been in Paris, and could he prove that he had

arrived that morning? Abbott wanted to fling the receiver into the mouth

of the transmitter, but his patience was presently rewarded. The singer

had not yet been found, but the chauffeur of the mysterious car had turned

up ... in a hospital, and perhaps by night they would know everything. The

chauffeur had had a bad accident; the car itself was a total wreck, in a

ditch, not far from Versailles.

"There!" cried Abbott, slamming the receiver on the hook. "What do you say

to that?"

"The chauffeur may have left her somewhere, got drunk afterward, and

plunged into the ditch. Things have happened like that. Abby, don't make a

camel's-hair shirt out of your paint-brushes. What a pother about a

singer! If it had been a great inventor, a poet, an artist, there would

have been nothing more than a two-line paragraph. But an opera-singer, one

who entertains us during our idle evenings--ha! that's a different matter.

Set instantly that great municipal machinery called the police in action;

sell extra editions on the streets. What ado!"

"What the devil makes _you_ so bitter?"

"Was I bitter? I thought I was philosophizing." Courtlandt consulted his

watch. Half after four. "Come over to the Maurice and dine with me

to-morrow night, that is, if you do not find your prima donna. I've an

engagement at five-thirty, and must be off."

"I was about to ask you to dine with me to-night," disappointedly.

"Can't; awfully sorry, Abby. It was only luck that I met you in the

Luxembourg. Be over about seven. I was very glad to see you again."

Abbott kicked a broken easel into a corner. "All right. If anything turns

up I'll let you know. You're at the Grand?"

"Yes. By-by."

"I know what's the matter with him," mused the artist, alone. "Some woman

has chucked him. Silly little fool, probably."

Courtlandt went down-stairs and out into the boulevard. Frankly, he was

beginning to feel concerned. He still held to his original opinion that

the diva had disappeared of her own free will; but if the machinery of the

police had been started, he realized that his own safety would eventually

become involved. By this time, he reasoned, there would not be a hotel in

Paris free of surveillance. Naturally, blond strangers would be in demand.

The complications that would follow his own arrest were not to be ignored.

He agreed with his conscience that he had not acted with dignity in

forcing his way into her apartment. But that night he had been at odds

with convention; his spirit had been that of the marauding old Dutchman of

the seventeenth century. He perfectly well knew that she was in the right

as far as the pistol-shot was concerned. Further, he knew that he could

quash any charge she might make in that direction by the simplest of

declarations; and to avoid this simplest of declarations she would prefer

silence above all things. They knew each other tolerably well.

It was extremely fortunate that he had not been to the hotel since

Saturday. He went directly to the war-office. The great and powerful man

there was the only hope left. They had met some years before in Algiers,

where Courtlandt had rendered him a very real service.

"I did not expect you to the minute," the great man said pleasantly. "You

will not mind waiting for a few minutes."

"Not in the least. Only, I'm in a deuce of a mess," frankly and directly.

"Innocently enough, I've stuck my head into the police net."

"Is it possible that now I can pay my debt to you?"

"Such as it is. Have you read the article in the newspapers regarding the

disappearance of Signorina da Toscana, the singer?"

"Yes."

"I am the unknown blond. To-morrow morning I want you to go with me to the

prefecture and state that I was with you all of Saturday and Sunday; that

on Monday you and your wife dined with me, that yesterday we went to the

aviation meet, and later to the Odeon."

"In brief, an alibi?" smiling now.

"Exactly. I shall need one."

"And a perfectly good alibi. But I have your word that you are in nowise

concerned? Pardon the question, but between us it is really necessary if I

am to be of service to you."

"On my word as a gentleman."

"That is sufficient."

"In fact, I do not believe that she has been abducted at all. Will you let

me use your pad and pen for a minute?"

The other pushed over the required articles. Courtlandt scrawled a few

words and passed back the pad.

"For me to read?"

"Yes," moodily.

The Frenchman read. Courtlandt watched him anxiously. There was not even a

flicker of surprise in the official eye. Calmly he ripped off the sheet

and tore it into bits, distributing the pieces into the various

waste-baskets yawning about his long flat desk. Next, still avoiding the

younger man's eye, he arranged his papers neatly and locked them up in a

huge safe which only the artillery of the German army could have forced.

He then called for his hat and stick. He beckoned to Courtlandt to follow.

Not a word was said until the car was humming on the road to Vincennes.

"Well?" said Courtlandt, finally. It was not possible for him to hold back

the question any longer.

"My dear friend, I am taking you out to the villa for the night."

"But I have nothing...."

"And I have everything, even foresight. If you were arrested to-night it

would cause you some inconvenience. I am fifty-six, some twenty years your

senior. Under this hat of mine I carry a thousand secrets, and every one

of these thousand must go to the grave with me, yours along with them. I

have met you a dozen times since those Algerian days, and never have you

failed to afford me some amusement or excitement. You are the most

interesting and entertaining young man I know. Try one of these cigars."

Precisely at the time Courtlandt stepped into the automobile outside the

war-office, a scene, peculiar in character, but inconspicuous in that it

did not attract attention, was enacted in the Gare de l'Est. Two

sober-visaged men stood respectfully aside to permit a tall young man in a

Bavarian hat to enter a compartment of the second-class. What could be

seen of the young man's face was full of smothered wrath and

disappointment. How he hated himself, for his weakness, for his cowardice!

He was not all bad. Knowing that he was being watched and followed, he

could not go to Versailles and compromise her, uselessly. And devil take

the sleek demon of a woman who had prompted him to commit so base an act!

"You will at least," he said, "deliver that message which I have intrusted

to your care."

"It shall reach Versailles to-night, your Highness."

The young man reread the telegram which one of the two men had given him a

moment since. It was a command which even he, wilful and disobedient as he

was, dared not ignore. He ripped it into shreds and flung them out of the

window. He did not apologize to the man into whose face the pieces flew.

That gentleman reddened perceptibly, but he held his tongue. The blare of

a horn announced the time of departure. The train moved. The two men on

the platform saluted, but the young man ignored the salutation. Not until

the rear car disappeared in the hazy distance did the watchers stir. Then

they left the station and got into the tonneau of a touring-car, which

shot away and did not stop until it drew up before that imposing embassy

upon which the French will always look with more or less suspicion.