Leaning back in an iron chair, with his shoulders resting against the oak,
was another man, altogether a different type. He was frowning over the
pages of Bagot's Italian Lakes, and he wasn't making much headway. He
was Italian to the core, for all that he aped the English style and
manner. He could speak the tongue with fluency, but he stumbled and
faltered miserably over the soundless type. His clothes had the Piccadilly
cut, and his mustache, erstwhile waxed and militant, was cropped at the
corners, thoroughly insular. He was thirty, and undeniably handsome.
Near the fountain, on the green, was a third man. He was in the act of
folding up an easel and a camp-stool.
The tea-drinkers had gone. It was time for the first bell for dinner. The
villa's omnibus was toiling up the winding road among the grape-vines.
Suddenly Harrigan tilted his head sidewise, and the long silken ears of
the dachel stirred. The Italian slowly closed his book and permitted his
chair to settle on its four legs. The artist stood up from his paintbox.
From a window in the villa came a voice; only a lilt of a melody, no
words,--half a dozen bars from Martha; but every delightful note went
deep into the three masculine hearts. Harrigan smiled and patted the dog.
The Italian scowled at the vegetable garden directly below. The artist
scowled at the Italian.
"Fritz, Fritz; here, Fritz!"
The dog struggled in Harrigan's hands and tore himself loose. He went
clattering over the path toward the villa and disappeared into the
doorway. Nothing could keep him when that voice called. He was as ardent a
lover as any, and far more favored.
"Oh, you funny little dog! You merry little dachel! Fritz, mustn't; let
go!" Silence.
The artist knew that she was cuddling the puppy to her heart, and his own
grew twisted. He stooped over his materials again and tied the box to the
easel and the stool, and shifted them under his arm.
"I'll be up after dinner, Mr. Harrigan," he said.
"All right, Abbott." Harrigan waved his hand pleasantly. He was becoming
so used to the unvarying statement that Abbott would be up after dinner,
that his reply was by now purely mechanical. "She's getting her voice back
all right; eh?"
"Beautifully! But I really don't think she ought to sing at the Haines'
villa Sunday."
"One song won't hurt her. She's made up her mind to sing. There's nothing
for us to do but to sit tight. No news from Paris?"
"No."
"Say, do you know what I think?"
"What?"
"Some one has come across to the police."
"Paris is not New York, Mr. Harrigan."
"Oh, I don't know. There's a hundred cents to the dollar, my boy, Paris or
New York. Why haven't they moved? They can't tell me that tow-headed
chap's alibi was on the level. I wish I'd been in Paris. There'd been
something doing. And who was he? They refuse to give his name. And I can't
get a word out of Nora. Shuts me up with a bang when I mention it. Throws
her nerves all out, she says. I'd like to get my hands on the
blackguard."