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."




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