"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."




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