Part 7 (1/2)

”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 circ.u.mstances.”

”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 a.s.sumed 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 friends.h.i.+p.

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?”