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The Lure of the Mask

by Harold MacGrath · English · Gutenberg #22158 · 498,543 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Lure of the Mask

Author: Harold MacGrath

Illustrator: Karl Anderson
        Harrison Fisher


        
Release date: July 27, 2007 [eBook #22158]
                Most recently updated: July 22, 2011

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22158

Credits: Produced by Rick Niles, Mary Meehan and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LURE OF THE MASK ***




Produced by Rick Niles, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                      _The_ LURE OF THE MASK

                      _By_ HAROLD MAC GRATH

                      WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
                         HARRISON FISHER
                               AND
                          KARL ANDERSON


                          INDIANAPOLIS
                   THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
                           PUBLISHERS
                         COPYRIGHT 1908


                            PRESS OF
                        BRAUN WORTH & CO.
                     BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
                         BROOKLYN, N.Y.




TO
MY FELLOW TRAVELER
AND
GENTLE CRITIC




CONTENTS


       I THE VOICE IN THE FOG

      II OBJECT, MATRIMONY

     III MADAME ANGOT

      IV BLINDFOLDED

       V THE MASK

      VI INTO THE FOG AGAIN

     VII THE TOSS OF A COIN

    VIII WHAT MERRIHEW FOUND

      IX MRS. SANDFORD WINKS

       X CARABINIERI

      XI THE CITY IN THE SEA

     XII A BOX OF CIGARS

    XIII KITTY ASKS QUESTIONS

     XIV GREY VEILS

      XV MANY NAPOLEONS

     XVI O'MALLY SUGGESTS

    XVII GIOVANNI

   XVIII THE ARIA FROM IL TROVATORE

     XIX TWO GENTLEMEN FROM VERONA

      XX KITTY DROPS A BANDBOX

     XXI AN INVITATION TO A BALL

    XXII TANGLES

   XXIII THE DENOUEMENT

    XXIV MEASURE FOR MEASURE

     XXV FREE

    XXVI THE LETTER

   XXVII BELLAGGIO




THE LURE OF THE MASK




CHAPTER I

THE VOICE IN THE FOG


Out of the unromantic night, out of the somber blurring January fog,
came a voice lifted in song, a soprano, rich, full and round, young, yet
matured, sweet and mysterious as a night-bird's, haunting and elusive as
the murmur of the sea in a shell: a lilt from _La Fille de Madame
Angot_, a light opera long since forgotten in New York. Hillard,
genuinely astonished, lowered his pipe and listened. To sit dreaming by
an open window, even in this unlovely first month of the year, in that
grim unhandsome city which boasts of its riches and still accepts with
smug content its rows upon rows of ugly architecture, to sit dreaming,
then, of red-tiled roofs, of cloud-caressed hills, of terraced
vineyards, of cypresses in their dark aloofness, is not out of the
natural order of things; but that into this idle and pleasant dream
there should enter so divine a voice, living, feeling, pulsing, this was
not ordinary at all.

And Hillard was glad that the room was in darkness. He rose eagerly and
peered out. But he saw no one. Across the street the arc-lamp burned
dimly, like an opal in the matrix, while of architectural outlines not
one remained, the fog having kindly obliterated them.

The Voice rose and sank and soared again, drawing nearer and nearer. It
was joyous and unrestrained, and there was youth in it, the touch of
spring and the breath of flowers. The music was Lecocq's, that is to
say, French; but the tongue was of a country which Hillard knew to be
the garden of the world. Presently he observed a shadow emerge from the
yellow mist, to come within the circle of light, which, faint as it was,
limned in against the nothingness beyond the form of a woman. She walked
directly under his window.

As the invisible comes suddenly out of the future to assume distinct
proportions which either make or mar us, so did this unknown cantatrice
come out of the fog that night and enter into Hillard's life, to
readjust its ambitions, to divert its aimless course, to give impetus to
it, and a directness which hitherto it had not known.

"Ah!"

He leaned over the sill at a perilous angle, the bright coal of his pipe
spilling comet-wise to the area-way below. He was only subconscious of
having spoken; but this syllable was sufficient to spoil the
enchantment. The Voice ceased abruptly, with an odd break. The singer
looked up. Possibly her astonishment surpassed even that of her
audience. For a few minutes she had forgotten that she was in New York,
where romance may be found only in the book-shops; she had forgotten
that it was night, a damp and chill forlorn night; she had forgotten the
pain in her heart; there had been only a great and irresistible longing
to sing.

Though she raised her face, he could distinguish no feature, for the
light was behind. However, he was a man who made up his mind quickly.
Brunette or blond, beautiful or otherwise, it needed but a moment to
find out. Even as this decision was made he was in the upper hall,
taking the stairs two at a bound. He ran out into the night, bareheaded.
Up the street he saw a flying shadow. Plainly she had anticipated his
impulse and the curiosity behind it. Even as he gave chase the shadow
melted in the fog, as ice melts in running waters, as flame dissolves in
sunshine. She was gone. He cupped his ear with his hand; in vain, there
came no sound as of pattering feet; there was nothing but fog and
silence.

"Well, if this doesn't beat the Dutch!" he murmured.

He laughed disappointedly. It did not matter that he was three and
thirty; he still retained youth enough to feel chagrined at such a
trivial defeat. Here had been something like a genuine adventure, and it
had slipped like water through his clumsy fingers.

"Deuce take the fog! But for that I'd have caught her."

But reason promptly asked him what he should have done had he caught the
singer. Yes, supposing he had, what excuse would he have had to offer?
Denial on her part would have been simple, and righteous indignation at
being accosted on the street simpler still. He had not seen her face,
and doubtless she was aware of this fact. Thus, she would have had all
the weapons for defense and he not one for attack. But though reason
argued well, it did not dislodge his longing. He would have been
perfectly happy to have braved her indignation for a single glance at
her face. He walked back, lighting his pipe. Who could she be? What
peculiar whimsical freak had sent her singing past his window at one
o'clock of the morning? A grand opera singer, returning home from a late
supper? But he dismissed this opinion even as he advanced it. He knew
something about grand opera singers. They attend late suppers, it is
true, but they ride home in luxurious carriages and never risk their
golden voices in this careless if romantic fashion. And in New York
nobody took the trouble to serenade anybody else, unless paid in advance
and armed with a police permit. As for being a comic-opera star, he
refused to admit the possibility; and he relegated this well-satisfied
constellation to the darks of limbo. He had heard a Voice.

A vast, shadow loomed up in the middle of the street, presently to take
upon itself the solid outlines of a policeman who came lumbering over to
add or subtract his quota of interest in the affair. Hillard wisely
stopped and waited for him, pulling up the collar of his jacket, as he
began to note that there was a winter's tang to the fog.

"Hi, what's all this?" the policeman called out roughly.

"To what do you refer?" Hillard counter-questioned, puffing. He slipped
his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"I heard a woman singin', that's what!" explained the guardian of the
law.

"So did I."

"Oh, you did, huh?"

"Certainly. It is patent that my ears are as good as yours."

"Huh! See her?"

"For a moment," Hillard admitted.

"Well, we can't have none o' this in the streets. It's disorderly."

"My friend," said Hillard, rather annoyed at the policeman's tone, "you
don't think for an instant that I was directing this operetta?"

"Think? Where's your hat?"

Hillard ran his hand over his head. The policeman had him here. "I did
not bring it out."

"Too warm and summery; huh? It don't look good. I've been watchin' these
parts fer a leddy. They call her Leddy Lightfinger; an' she has some O'
the gents done to a pulp when it comes to liftin' jools an' trinkets.
Somebody fergits to lock the front door, an' she finds it out. Why did
you come out without yer lid?"

"Just forgot it, that's all."

"Which way'd she go?"

"You'll need a map and a search-light. I started to run after her
myself. I heard a voice from my window; I saw a woman; I made for the
street; _niente_!"

"Huh?"

"_Niente_, nothing!"

"Oh! I see; Dago. Seems to me now that this woman was singin' I-taly-an,
too." They were nearing the light, and the policeman gazed intently at
the hatless young man. "Why, it's Mr. Hillard! I'm surprised. Well,
well! Some day I'll run in a bunch o' these chorus leddies, jes' fer a
lesson. They git lively at the restaurants over on Broadway, an' thin
they raise the dead with their singin', which, often as not, is anythin'
but singin'. An' here it is, after one."

"But this was not a chorus lady," replied Hillard, thoughtfully reaching
into his vest for a cigar.

"Sure, an' how do you know?" with renewed suspicions.

"The lady had a singing voice."

"Huh! They all think alike about that. But mebbe she wasn't bad at the
business. Annyhow...."

"It was rather out of time and place, eh?" helpfully.

"That's about the size of it. This Leddy Lightfinger is a case. She has
us all thinkin' on our nights off. Clever an' edjicated, an' jabbers in
half a dozen tongues. It's a thousan' to the man who jugs her. But she
don't sing; at least, they ain't any report to that effect. Perhaps your
leddy was jes' larkin' a bit. But it's got to be stopped."

Hillard passed over the cigar, and the policeman bit off the end,
nodding with approval at such foresight. The young man then proffered
the coal of his pipe and the policeman took his light therefrom,
realizing that after such a peace-offering there was nothing for him to
do but move on. Yet on dismal lonesome nights, like this one, it is a
godsend and a comfort to hear one's own voice against the darkness. So
he lingered.

"Didn't get a peep at her face?"

"Not a single feature. The light was behind her." Hillard tapped one toe
and then the other.

"An' how was she dressed?"

"In fog, for all I could see."

"On the level now, didn't you know who she was?" The policeman gave
Hillard a sly dig in the ribs with his club.

"On my word!"

"Some swell, mebbe."

"Undoubtedly a lady. That's why it looks odd, why it brought me into the
street. She sang in classic Italian. And what's more, for the privilege
of hearing that voice again, I should not mind sitting on this cold curb
till the milkman comes around in the morning."

"That wouldn't be fer long," laughed the policeman, taking out his watch
and holding it close to the end of his cigar. "Twenty minutes after one.
Well, I must be gittin' back to me beat. An' you'd better be goin' in;
it's cold. Good night."

"Good night," Hillard responded cheerfully.

"Say, what's I-taly-an fer good night?" still reluctant to go on.

"_Buona notte._"

"Bony notty; huh, sounds like Chinese fer rheumatism. Been to Italy?"

"I was born there," patiently.

"No! Why, you're no Dago!"

"Not so much as an eyelash. The stork happened to drop the basket there,
that's all."

"Ha! I see. Well, Ameriky is good enough fer me an' mine," complacently.

"I dare say!"

"An' if this stogy continues t' behave, we'll say no more about the
vanishin' leddy." And with this the policeman strolled off into the fog,
his suspicions in nowise removed. He knew many rich young bachelors like
Hillard. If it wasn't a chorus lady, it was a prima donna, which was not
far in these degenerate days from being the same thing.

Hillard regained his room and leaned with his back to the radiator. He
had an idea. It was rather green and salad, but as soon as his hands
were warm he determined to put this idea into immediate use. The Voice
had stirred him deeply, stirred him with the longing to hear it again,
to see the singer's face, to learn what extraordinary impulse had loosed
the song. Perhaps it was his unspoken loneliness striving to call out
against this self-imposed isolation; for he was secretly lonely, as all
bachelors must be who have passed the Rubicon of thirty. He made no
analysis of this new desire, or rather this old desire, newly awakened.
He embraced it gratefully. Such is the mystery and power of the human
voice: this one, passing casually under his window, had awakened him.

Never the winter came with its weary round of rain and fog and snow that
his heart and mind did not fly over the tideless southern sea to the
land of his birth if not of his blood. Sorrento, that jewel of the ruddy
clifts! There was fog outside his window, and yet how easy it was to
picture the turquoise bay of Naples shimmering in the morning light!
There was Naples itself, like a string of its own pink coral, lying
crescent-wise on the distant strand; there were the snowcaps fading on
the far horizon; the bronzed fishermen and their wives, a sheer two
hundred feet below him, pulling in their glistening nets; the amethyst
isles of Capri and Ischia eternally hanging midway between the blue of
the sky and the blue of the sea; and there, towering menacingly above
all this melting beauty, the dark, grim pipe of Vulcan. How easily,
indeed, he could see all these things!

With a quick gesture of both hands, Latin, always Latin, he crossed the
room to a small writing-desk, turned on the lights and sat down. He
smiled as he took up the pen to begin his composition. Not one chance in
a thousand. And after several attempts he realized that the letter he
had in mind was not the simplest to compose. There were a dozen futile
efforts before he produced anything like satisfaction. Then he filled
out a small check. A little later he stole down-stairs, round the corner
to the local branch of the post-office, and returned. It was only a
blind throw, such as dicers sometimes make in the dark. But chance loves
her true gamester, and to him she makes a faithful servant.

"I should be sorely tempted," he mused, picking up a novel and selecting
a comfortable angle in the Morris, "I should be sorely tempted to call
any other man a silly ass. Leddy Lightfinger--it would be a fine joke if
my singer turned out to be that irregular person."

He fell to reading, but it was not long before he yawned. He shied the
book into a corner, drew off his boots and cast them into the hall. A
moment after his valet appeared, gathered up the boots, tucked them
under his arm, and waited.

"I want nothing, Giovanni. I have only been around to the post-office."

"I heard the door open and close four times, signore."

"It was I each time. If this fog does not change into rain, I shall want
my riding-breeches to-morrow morning."

"It is always raining here," Giovanni remarked sadly.

"Not always; there are pleasant days in the spring and summer. It is
because this is not Italy. The Hollander wonders how any reasonable
being can dwell in a country where they do not drink gin. It's home,
Giovanni; rain pelts you from a different angle here. There is nothing
more; you may go. It is two o'clock, and you are dead for sleep."

But Giovanni only bowed; he did not stir.

"Well?" inquired his master.

"It is seven years now, signore."

"So it is; seven this coming April."

"I am now a citizen of this country; I obey its laws; I vote."

"Yes, Giovanni, you are an American citizen, and you should be proud of
it."

Giovanni smiled. "I may return to my good Italia without danger."

"That depends. If you do not run across any official who recognizes
you."

Giovanni spread his hands. "Official memory seldom lasts so long as
seven years. The signore has crossed four times in this period."

"I would gladly have taken you each time, as you know."

"Oh, yes! But in two or three years the police do not forget. In seven
it is different."

"Ah!" Hillard was beginning to understand the trend of this
conversation. "So, then, you wish to return?"

"Yes, signore. I have saved a little money," modestly.

"A little?" Hillard laughed. "For seven years you have received fifty
American dollars every month, and out of it you do not spend as many
copper centesimi. I am certain that you have twenty thousand lire tucked
away in your stocking; a fortune!"

"I buy the blacking for the signore's boots," gravely.

Hillard saw the twinkle in the black eyes. "I have never," he said
truthfully, "asked you to black my boots."

"Penance, signore, penance for my sins; and I am not without gratitude.
There was a time when I had rather cut off a hand than black a boot; but
all that is changed. We of the Sabine Hills are proud, as the signore
knows. We are Romans out there; we despise the cities; and we do not
hold out our palms for the traveler's pennies. I am a peasant, but
always remember the blood of the Caesars. Who can say? Besides, I have
held a sword for the church. I owe no allegiance to the puny House of
Savoy!" There was no twinkle in the black eyes now; there was a
ferocious gleam. It died away quickly, however; the squared shoulders
drooped, and there was a deprecating shrug. "Pardon, signore; this is
far away from the matter of boots. I grow boastful; I am an old man and
should know better. But does the signore return to Italy in the spring?"

"I don't know, Giovanni, I don't know. But what's on your mind?"

"Nothing new, signore," with eyes cast down to hide the returning
lights.

"You are a bloodthirsty ruffian!" said Hillard shortly. "Will time never
soften the murder in your heart?"

"I am as the good God made me. I have seen through blood, and time can
not change that. Besides, the Holy Father will do something for one who
fought for the cause."

"He will certainly not countenance bloodshed, Giovanni."

"He can absolve it. And as you say, I am rich, as riches go in the
Sabine Hills."

"I was in hopes you had forgotten."

"Forgotten? The signore will never understand; it is his father's blood.
She was so pretty and youthful, eye of my eye, heart of my heart! And
innocent! She sang like the nightingale. She was always happy. Up with
the dawn, to sleep with the stars. We were alone, she and I. The sheep
supported me and she sold her roses and dried lavender. It was all so
beautiful ... till he came. Ah, had he loved her! But a plaything, a
pastime! The signore never had a daughter. What is she now? A nameless
thing in the streets!" Giovanni raised his arms tragically; the hoots
clattered to the floor. "Seven years! It is a long time for one of my
blood to wait."

"Enough!" cried Hillard; but there was a hardness in his throat at the
sight of the old man's tears. Where was the proud and stately man, the
black-bearded shepherd in faded blue linen, in picturesque garters, with
his reed-like pipe, that he, Hillard, had known in his boyhood days?
Surely not here. Giovanni had known the great wrong, but Hillard could
not in conscience's name foster the spirit which demanded an eye for an
eye. So he said: "I can give you only my sympathy for your loss, but I
abhor the spirit of revenge which can not find satisfaction in anything
save murder."

Giovanni once more picked up the boots. "I shall leave the signore in
the spring."

"As you please," said Hillard gently.

Giovanni bowed gravely and made off with his boots. Hillard remained
staring thoughtfully at the many-colored squares in the rug under his
feet. It would be lonesome with Giovanni gone. The old man had evidently
made up his mind.... But the Woman with the Voice, would she see the
notice in the paper? And if she did, would she reply to it? What a
foundation for a romance!... Bah! He prepared for bed.

To those who reckon earthly treasures as the only thing worth having,
John Hillard was a fortunate young man. That he was without kith or kin
was considered by many as an additional piece of good fortune. Born in
Sorrento, in one of the charming villas which sweep down to the very
brow of the cliffs, educated in Rome up to his fifteenth year; taken at
that age from the dreamy, drifting land and thrust into the noisy,
bustling life which was his inheritance; fatherless and motherless at
twenty; a college youth who was for ever mixing his Italian with his
English and being laughed at; hating tumult and loving quiet;
warm-hearted and impulsive, yet meeting only habitual reserve from his
compatriots whichever way he turned; it is not to be wondered at that he
preferred the land of his birth to that of his blood.

All this might indicate an artistic temperament, the ability to do petty
things grandly; but Hillard had escaped this. He loved his Raphaels, his
Titians, his Veroneses, his Rubenses, without any desire to make
indifferent copies of them; he admired his Dante, his Petrarch, his
Goldoni, without the wish to imitate them. He was full of sentiment
without being sentimental, a poet who thought but never indited verses.
His father's blood was in his veins, that is to say, the salt of
restraint; thus, his fortune grew and multiplied. The strongest and
reddest corpuscle had been the gift of his mother. She had left him the
legacy of loving all beautiful things in moderation, the legacy of
gentleness, of charity, of strong loves and frank hatreds, of humor, of
living out in the open, of dreaming great things and accomplishing none
of them.

The old house in which he lived was not in the fashionable quarter of
the town; but that did not matter. Nor did it vary externally from any
of its unpretentious neighbors. Inside, however, there were treasures
priceless and unique. There was no woman in the household; he might
smoke in any room he pleased. A cook, a butler, and a valet were the
sum-total of his retinue. In appearance he resembled many another
clean-cut, clean-living American gentleman.

Giovanni sought his own room at the end of the hall, squatted on a low
stool and solemnly began the business of blacking his master's boots. He
was still as lean and tall as a Lombardy poplar, this handsome old
Roman. His hair was white; there was now no black beard on his face,
which was as brown and creased as Spanish levant; and some of the
fullness was gone from his chest and arms; but for all that he carried
his fifty-odd years lightly. He worked swiftly to-night, but his mind
was far away from his task.

There was a pitiful story, commonplace enough. A daughter, a
loose-living officer, a knife flung from a dark alley, and sudden flight
to the south. Hillard had found him wandering through the streets of
Naples, hiding from the _carabinieri_ as best he could. Hillard
contrived to smuggle him on the private yacht of a friend. He found a
peasant who was reconsidering the advisability of digging sewers and
laying railroad ties in the Eldorado of the West. A few pieces of
silver, and the passport changed hands. With this Giovanni blandly lied
his way into the United States. After due time he applied for
citizenship, and through Hillard's influence it was accorded him. He
solemnly voted when elections came round, and hoarded his wages, like
the thrifty man he was. Some day he would return to Rome, or Naples, or
Venice, or Florence, as the case might be; and then!

When the boots shone flawlessly, he carried them to Hillard's door and
softly tiptoed back. He put his face against the cold window. He, too,
had heard the Voice. How his heart hurt him with its wild hope! But only
for a moment. It was not the voice he hungered for. The words were
Italian, but he knew that the woman who sang them was not!




CHAPTER II

OBJECT, MATRIMONY


Winter fogs in New York are never quite so intolerable as their
counterparts in London; and while their frequency is a matter of
complaint, their duration is seldom of any length. So, by the morrow a
strong wind from the west had winnowed the skies and cleared the sun.
There was an exhilarating tingle of frost in the air and a visible rime
on the windows. Hillard, having breakfasted lightly, was standing with
his back to the grate in the cozy breakfast-room. He was in boots and
breeches and otherwise warmly clad, and freshly shaven. He rocked on his
heels and toes, and ran his palm over his blue-white chin in search of a
possible slip of the razor.

Giovanni came in to announce that he had telephoned, and that the
signore's brown mare would be at the park entrance precisely at
half-after eight. Giovanni still marveled over this wonderful voice
which came out of nowhere, but he was no longer afraid of it. The
curiosity which is innate and child-like in all Latins soon overcame his
dark superstitions. He was an ardent Catholic and believed that a few
miracles should be left in the hands of God. The telephone had now
become a kind of plaything, and Hillard often found him in front of it,
patiently waiting for the bell to ring.

The facility with which Giovanni had mastered English amazed his teacher
and master; but now he needed no more lessons, the two when alone
together spoke Giovanni's tongue: Hillard, because he loved it, and
Giovanni because the cook spoke it badly and the English butler not at
all.

"You have made up your mind to go, then, _amico_?" said Hillard.

"Yes, signore."

"Well, I shall miss you. To whom shall I talk the tongue I love so well,
when Giovanni is gone?" with a lightness which he did not feel. Hillard
had grown very fond of the old Roman in these seven years.

"Whenever the signore goes to Italia, he shall find me. It needs but a
word to bring me to him. The signore will pardon me, but he is
like--like a son."

"Thanks, Giovanni. By the way, did you hear a woman singing in the
street last night?"

"Yes. At first--" Giovanni hesitated.

"Ah, but that could not be, Giovanni; that could not be."

"No, it could not be. But she sang well!" the old servant ventured.

"So thought I. I even ran out into the street to find out who she was;
but she vanished like the lady in the conjurer's trick. But it seemed to
me that, while she sang in Italian, she herself was not wholly of that
race."

"_Buonissima!_" Giovanni struck a noiseless brava with his hands. "Have
I not always said that the signore's ears are as sharp as my own? No,
the voice was very beautiful, but it was not truly Roman. It was more
like they talk in Venice. And yet the sound of the voice decided me. The
hills have always been calling to me; and I must answer."

"And the unforgetting _carabinieri_?"

"Oh, I must take my chance," with the air of a fatalist.

"What shall you do?"

"I have my two hands, signore. Besides, the signore has said it; I am
rich." Giovanni permitted a smile to stir his thin lips. "Yes, I must go
back. Your people have been good to me and have legally made me one of
them, but my heart is never here. It is always so cold and every one
moves so quickly. You can not lie down in the sun. Your police, bah!
They beat you on the feet. You remember when I fell asleep on the steps
of the cathedral? They thought I was drunk, and would have arrested me!"

"Everybody must keep moving here; it is the penalty of being rich."

"And I am lonesome for my kind. I have nothing in common with these
herds of Sicilians and Neapolitans who pour into the streets from the
wharves." Giovanni spoke scornfully.

"Yet in war time the Neapolitans sheltered your pope."

"Vanity! They wished to make an impression on the rest of the world. It
is dull here, besides. There is no joy in the shops. I am lost in these
great palaces. The festa is lacking. Nobody bargains; nobody sees the
proprietor; you find your way to the streets alone. The butcher says
that his meat is so-and-so, and you pay; the grocer marks his tins
such-and-such, and you do not question; and the baker says that, and you
pay, pay, pay! What? I need a collar; it is _quindici_--fifteen you say!
I offer _quattordici_. I would give interest to the sale. But no! The
collar goes back into the box. I pay _quindici_, or I go without. It is
the same everywhere; very dull, dead, lifeless."

Hillard was moved to laughter. He very well understood the old man's
lament. In Italy, if there is one thing more than another that pleases
the native it is to make believe to himself that he has got the better
of a bargain. A shrewd purchase enlivens the whole day; it is talked
about, laughed over, and becomes the history of the day that Tomass', or
Pietro, or Paoli, or whatever his name may be, has bested the merchant
out of some twenty centesimi.

"And the cook and the butler," concluded Giovanna; "we do not get on
well."

"It is because they are in mortal fear of you, you brigand! Well, my
coat and cap."

Hillard presently left the house and hailed a Fifth Avenue omnibus. He
looked with negative interest at the advertisements, at the people in
the streets, at his fellow-travelers. One of these was hidden behind his
morning paper. _Personals._ Hillard squirmed a little. The world never
holds very much romance in the sober morning. What a stupid piece of
folly! The idea of his sending that personal inquiry to the paper!
To-morrow he would see it sandwiched in between samples of shop-girl
romance, questionable intrigues, and divers search-warrants. Ye gods!
"Will the blonde who smiled at gentleman in blue serge, elevated train,
Tuesday, meet same in park? Object, matrimony." Hillard fidgeted. "Young
man known as Adonis would adore stout elderly lady, independently
situated. Object, matrimony." Pish! "Girlie. Can't keep appointment
to-night. Willie." Tush! "A French Widow of eighteen, unencumbered," and
so forth and so on. Rot, bally rot; and here he was on the way to join
them! "Will the lady who sang from _Madame Angot_ communicate with
gentleman who leaned out of the window? J.H. Burgomaster Club."
Positively asinine! The man opposite folded the paper and stuffed it
into his pocket, and its disappearance relieved Hillard somewhat.

There was scarce one chance in a thousand of the mysterious singer's
seeing the inquiry, not one in ten thousand of her answering it. And the
folly of giving his club address! That would look very dignified in
yonder agony column! And then he brightened. He could withdraw it; and
he would do so the very first thing when he went down-town to the
office. "Object, matrimony!" If the woman saw it she would only laugh.
It was all a decent woman could do. And certainly the woman of the past
night's adventure was of high degree, educated; and doubtless the spirit
which had prompted the song was as inexplicable to her this morning as
it had been to him last night. He had lost none of the desire to meet
her, but reason made it plain to him that a meeting could not possibly
be arranged through any personal column in the newspaper. He would
cancel the thing.

He dropped from the omnibus at the park entrance, where he found his
restive mare. He gave her a lump of sugar and climbed into the saddle.
He directed the groom to return for the horse at ten o'clock, then
headed for the bridle-path. It was heavy, but the air was so keen and
bracing that neither the man nor the horse worried about the going.
There were a dozen or so early riders besides himself, and in and out
the winding path they passed and repassed, walking, trotting, cantering.
Only one party attracted him: a riding master and a trio of brokers who
were verging on embonpoint, and were desperate and looked it. They stood
in a fair way of losing several pounds that morning. A good rider always
smiles at the sight of a poor one, when a little retrospection should
make him rather pitying. Hillard went on. The park was not lovely; the
trees were barren, the grass yellow and sodden, and here and there were
grimy cakes of unmelted snow.

"She is so innocent, so youthful!"

He found himself humming the refrain over and over. She had sung it with
abandon, tenderness, lightness. For one glimpse of her face! He took the
rise and dip which followed. Perhaps a hundred yards ahead a solitary
woman cantered easily along. Hillard had not seen her before. He spurred
forward, only faintly curious. She proved to be a total stranger. There
was nothing familiar to his eye in her figure, which was charming. She
rode well. As he drew nearer he saw that she wore a heavy grey veil. And
this veil hid everything but the single flash of a pair of eyes the
color of which defied him. Then he looked at her mount. Ha! there was
only one rangy black with a white throat; from the Sandford stables, he
was positive. But the Sandfords were at this moment in Cairo, so it
signified nothing. There is always some one ready to exercise your
horses, if they happen to be showy ones. He looked again at the rider;
the flash of the eyes was not repeated; so his interest vanished, and he
urged the mare into a sharp run. Twice in the course of the ride he
passed her, but her head never turned. He knew it did not because he
turned to see.

So he went back to his tentative romance. She had passed his window and
disappeared into the fog, and there was a reasonable doubt of her ever
returning from it. The Singer in the Fog; thus he would write it down in
his book of memories and sensibly turn the page. Once down-town he would
countermand his order, and that would be the end of it. At length he
came back to the entrance and surrendered the mare. He was about to
cross the square, when he was hailed.

"Hello, Jack! I say, Hillard!"

Hillard wheeled and saw Merrihew. He, too, was in riding-breeches.

"Why, Dan, glad to see you. Were you in the park?"

"Riverside. Beastly cold, too. Come into the Plaza and join me in a cup
of good coffee."

"Had breakfast long ago, boy."

"Oh, just one cup! I'm lonesome."

"That's no inducement; but I'll join you," replied Hillard cheerfully.

The two entered the cafe, sat down, and Merrihew ordered Mocha.

"How are you behaving yourself these days?" asked Merrihew. He drank
more coffee and smoked more cigars than were good for him. He was always
going to start in next week to reduce the quantity.

"My habits are always exemplary," answered Hillard. "But yours?"

Merrihew's face lengthened. He pulled the yellow hair out of his eyes
and gulped his coffee.

"Kitty Killigrew leaves in two weeks for Europe."

"And who the deuce is Kitty Killigrew?" demanded Hillard.

"What?" reproachfully. "You haven't heard of Kitty Killigrew in _The
Modern Maid_? Where've you been? Pippin! Prettiest soubrette that's hit
the town in a dog's age."

"I say, Dan, don't you ever tire of that sort? I can't recall when there
wasn't a Kitty Killigrew. What's the attraction?" Hillard waved aside
the big black cigar. "No heavy tobacco for me in the morning. What's the
attraction?"

Merrihew touched off a match, applied it to the black cigar, took the
cigar from his teeth and inspected the glowing end critically. He never
failed to go through this absurd pantomime; he would miss a train rather
than omit it.

"The truth is, Jack, I'm a jackass half the time. I can't get away from
the glamour of the footlights. I'm no Johnny; you know that. No hanging
round stage-entrances and buying wine and diamonds. I might be reckless
enough to buy a bunch of roses, when I'm not broke. But I like 'em, the
bright ones. They keep a fellow amused. Most of 'em speak good English
and come from better families than you would suppose. Just good
fellowship, you know; maybe a rabbit and a bottle of beer after the
performance, or a little quarter limit at the apartment, singing and
good stories. What you've in mind is the chorus-lady. Not for mine!"

Hillard laughed, recalling his conversation with the policeman.

"Go on," he said; "get it all out of your system, now that you're
started."

"And then it tickles a fellow's vanity to be seen with them at the
restaurants. That's the way it begins, you know. I'll be perfectly frank
with you. If it wasn't for what the other fellows say, most of the
chorus-ladies would go hungry. And the girls that you and I know think
I'm a devil of a fellow, wicked but interesting, and all that."

Hillard's laughter broke forth again, and he leaned back. Merrihew would
always be twenty-six, he would always be youthful.

"And this Kitty Killigrew? I believe I've seen posters of her in the
windows, now that you speak of it."

"Well, Jack, I've got it bad this trip. I offered to marry her last
night."

"What!"

"Truth. And what do you think? Dropped me very neatly two thousand feet,
but softly. And I was serious, too."

"It seems to me that your Kitty is not half bad. What would you have
done had she accepted you?"

"Married her within twenty-four hours!"

"Come, Dan, be sensible. You are not such an ass as all that."

"Yes, I am," moodily. "I told you that I was a jackass half the time;
this is the half."

"But she won't have you?"

"Not for love or money."

"Are you sure about the money?" asked Hillard shrewdly.

"Seven hundred or seven thousand, it wouldn't matter to Kitty if she
made up her mind to marry a fellow. What's the matter with me, anyhow?
I'm not so badly set-up; I can whip any man in the club at my weight; I
can tell a story well; and I'm not afraid of anything."

"Not even of the future!" added Hillard.

"Do you really think it's my money?" pathetically.

"Well, seven thousand doesn't go far, and that's all you have. If it
were seventy, now, I'm not sure Kitty wouldn't reconsider."

Merrihew ran his tongue along the cigar wrapper which had loosened. He
had seven thousand a year, and every January first saw him shouldering a
thousand odd dollars' worth of last year's debts. Somehow, no matter how
he retrenched, he never could catch up. It's hard to pay for a horse
after one has ridden it to death, and Merrihew was always paying for
dead horses. He sighed.

"What's she like?" asked Hillard, with more sympathy than curiosity.

Merrihew drew out his watch and opened the case. It was a pretty face;
more than that, it was a refined prettiness. The eyes were merry, the
brow was intelligent, the nose and chin were good. Altogether, it was
the face of a merry, kindly little soul, one such as would be most
likely to trap the wandering fancy of a young man like Merrihew.

"And she won't have you," Hillard repeated, this time with more
curiosity than sympathy.

"Oh, she's no fool, I suppose. Honest Injun, Jack, it's so bad that I
find myself writing poetry on the backs of envelopes. And now she's
going to Europe!"

"London?"

"No. Some manager has the idea in his head that there is money to be
made in Italy and Germany during the spring and summer. American
comic-opera in those countries; can you imagine it? He has an angel, and
I suppose money is no object."

"This angel, then, has cut out a fine time for his bank account, and
he'll never get back to heaven, once he gets tangled up in foreign
red-tape. Every large city in Italy and Germany has practically its own
opera troupe. In full season it is grand opera, out of season it is
comic-opera, not the American kind; _Martha_, _The Bohemian Girl_, _The
Mascotte_, _The Grand Duchess_, and the like. And oh! my boy, the
homeliest chorus you ever dreamed of seeing; but they can sing. It's
only the ballerina who must have looks and figure. Poor angel! Tell your
Kitty to strike for a return ticket to America before she leaves."

"You think it's as bad as that?"

"Look on me as a prophet of evil, if you like, but truthful."

"I'll see that Kitty gets her ticket." Merrihew snapped the case of his
watch and drew his legs from under the table. "I lost a hundred last
night, too."

"After that I suppose nothing worse can happen," said Hillard cheerily.
"You will play, for all my advice."

"It's better to give than receive ... that," replied Merrihew
philosophically. "I've a good mind to follow the company. I've always
had a hankering to beat it up at Monte Carlo. A last throw, eh? Win or
lose, and quit. I might."

"And then again you mightn't. But the next time I go to Italy, I want
you to go with me. You're good company, and for the pleasure of
listening to your jokes I'll gladly foot the bills, and you may gamble
your letter of credit to your heart's content. I must be off. Who is
riding the Sandfords' black?"

"Haven't noticed. What do you think of Kitty?"

"Charming."

"And the photo isn't a marker."

"Possibly not."

"Lord, if I could only hibernate for three months, like a bear! My
capital might then readjust itself, if left alone that length of time.
Jack, why the deuce haven't I a relation I never heard of, who would
politely die to-morrow and leave me that beggarly thousand? I'm not
asking for much. The harder I chase it, the faster it runs ahead."
Merrihew thwacked his boots soundly with his crop.

"Some day I'm going to enter that thousand in the Suburban handicap. And
won't there be a killing!"

"It wouldn't do you any good to borrow it?"

"In that case I should owe two thousand instead of one. No, thank you.
Shall I see you at the club to-night?"

"Perhaps. Good-by."

They nodded pleasantly and took their separate ways. Merrihew stood very
high in Hillard's regard. He was a lovable fellow, and there was
something kindred in his soul and Hillard's, possibly the spirit of
romance. They had met years before, at a commencement, Merrihew in his
mortar-board and gown and Hillard as an old graduate, renewing his youth
at the fountains. What drew them together, perhaps more than anything
else, was their mutual love of out-door pleasures. Their first meeting
was followed by many hunting and fishing expeditions, and many long
rides on horseback. Take two men and put them on good horses, send them
forth into the wilds to face all conditions of weather and
inconveniences, and if they are not fast friends at the end of the
journey, rest assured that they never will be.

For all his aversion to cards, there was a bit of the gamester in
Hillard; as, once in his office, he decided on the fall of a coin not to
withdraw his personal from the paper. He was quite positive that he
would never hear that Voice again, but having thrown his dice he would
let them lie.

Now, at eleven o'clock that same morning two distinguished Italians sat
down to breakfast in one of the fashionable hotels. The one nor the
other had ever heard of Hillard, they did not even know that such a
person existed; and yet, serenely unconscious, one was casting his
life-line, as the palmist would say, across Hillard's. The knots and
tangles were to come later.

"The coffee in this country is abominable!" growled one.

"Insufferable!" assented his companion.

The waiter smiled covertly behind his hand. He had a smattering of all
tongues, being foreign born. These Italians and these Germans! Why,
there is only one place in the world where both the aroma and the flavor
of coffee are preserved; and it is not, decidedly not, in Italy or
Germany. And if his tip exceeded ten cents, he would be vastly
surprised. The Italian is always the same, prince or peasant. He never
wastes on necessities a penny which can be applied to the gaming-tables.
And these two were talking about Monte Carlo and Ostend and the German
_Kursaalen_.

The younger of the two was a very handsome man, tall, slender and
nervous, the Venetian type. His black eyes were keen and energetic and
roving, suggesting a temper less calculating than hasty. The mouth,
partly hidden under a graceful military mustache, was thin-lipped, the
mouth of a man who, however great his vices, was always master of them.
From his right cheek-bone to the corner of his mouth ran a scar, very
well healed. Instead of detracting from the beauty of his face it added
a peculiar fascination. And the American imagination, always receptive
of the romantic, might readily and forgivably have pictured villas,
maids in durance vile, and sword-thrusts under the moonlight. But the
waiter, who had served his time in one or another of the foreign armies,
knew that no foil or rapier could have made such a scar; more probably
the saber. For the Italian officer on horseback is the maddest of all
men, and in the spirit of play courts hazards that another man might
sensibly avoid in actual warfare.

His companion was less handsome but equally picturesque. His white head
and iron-grey beard placed him outside the active army. He wore in his
buttonhole a tiny bow of ribbon, the usual badge of the foreign service.

"I'm afraid, Enrico, that you have brought me to America on a useless
adventure," said the diplomat, lighting a thin, strong cigarette.

"She is here in New York, and I shall find her. I must have money, must!
I owe you the incredible amount of one hundred thousand lire. There are
millions under my hand, and I can not touch a penny."

"Do not let your debt to me worry you."

"You are so very good, Giuseppe!"

"Have we not grown up together? Sometimes I think I am partly to blame
for your extravagance. But a friend is a friend, or he is not."

"But he who borrows from his friend, loses him. Observe how I am placed!
It is maddening. I have had a dozen opportunities to marry riches. This
millstone is eternally round my neck. I have gone through my part of the
fortune which was left us independently. She has all of hers, and that
is why she is so strong. I am absolutely helpless."

"Poor friend! These American women! They all believe that a man must
have no peccadillos, once he has signed the marriage contract. Body of
Bacchus! the sacrament does not make a man less human than he was
before. But this one is clever. She might be Italian born."

"Her mother was Italian. It is the schooling in this country that has
made her so clever. The only thing Italian about her is her hatred. She
is my countrywoman there. Without her consent I can touch nothing; and
if I divorce her, pouff! all goes to the State. Sometimes I long to get
my two hands round her white throat. One mistake, one little mistake! I
am willing to swear that she loved me in the beginning. And I was a fool
not to profit by this sentiment. Give me patience, patience. If I say to
her, so much and you may have your freedom, there is always that cursed
will. The crown of Italy will never withdraw its hand; no. With his
wife's family on his hands, especially her brother, the king will never
waive his rights."

"Zut! softly, softly!"

"Oh, I speak with no disrespect. But let me find her."

"I doubt it. And remember, we have but ten days."

"We shall not find time heavy. I know a few rich butchers and grocers
who call themselves the aristocracy."

They laughed.

"And some of them play bridge and ecarte."

The diplomat jingled his keys. He was not averse to adding a few gold
pieces to his purse.

"I have followed her step by step to the boat at Naples. She is here.
She is not so inconspicuous that she will be hard to find. She has
wealthy friends, and from these I shall learn her whereabouts."

"You say she is beautiful; I would that I had seen her."

"Yes, she is beautiful; and a beautiful woman can not hide, even in a
city so big and noisy as this. Think of it! Chateaux and villas and
splendid rents, all waiting to be gormandized by the State! I have lied
to her, I have humiliated myself, I have offered all the reparation a
gentleman possibly could. Nothing, nothing! She knows; it is money, and
she knows it is money. The American native shrewdness! My father was a
fool and so was hers. And on July first comes the end! Let us get out
into the air before I become excited and forget where I am."

"As you wish, _amico_." The diplomat beckoned to the waiter.

The waiter stepped forward with the coats and hats. His tip was exactly
ten cents, and out of this the head waiter must have his percentage.

Three nights later, as Hillard and Merrihew were dining together at the
club, the steward came into the grill-room and swept his placid eye over
the groups of diners. Singling out Hillard, he came solemnly down to the
corner table and laid a blue letter at the side of Hillard's plate.

"I did not see you when you came in, sir," said the steward, his voice
as solemn as his step. "The letter arrived yesterday."

"Thank you, Thomas." With no small difficulty Hillard composed his face
and repressed the eagerness in his eyes. She had seen, she had written,
the letter lay under his hand! Who said that romance had taken flight?
True, the reading of the letter might disillusion him; but always would
there be that vision and the voice coming out of the fog. Nonchalantly
he turned the letter face downward and went on with the meal.

"I did not know that your mail came to the club," said Merrihew.

"It doesn't. Only rarely a letter drifts this way."

"Well, go on and read it; don't let me keep you from it. Some charmer,
I'll wager. Here I pour all my adventures into your ear, and I on my
side never so much as get a hint of yours. Go on, read it."

"Adventures, fiddlesticks! The letter can wait. It is probably a bill."

"A bill in a fashionable envelope like that?"

Hillard only smiled, tipped the cradle and refilled Merrihew's glass
with some excellent Romanee Conti. "When does Kitty sail?" he asked,
after a while of silence.

"A week from this Saturday, February second. What the deuce did you
bring up that for? I've been trying to forget it."

"Where do they land?"

"Naples. They open in Rome the first week in March. All the arrangements
and bookings seem to be complete. This is mighty good Burgundy, Jack. I
don't see where you pick it up." After coffee Merrihew pushed back his
chair. "I'll reserve a table in the billiard-room while you read your
letter."

"I'll be with you shortly," gratefully.

So, with the inevitable black cigar between his teeth, Merrihew
sauntered off toward the billiard-room, while Hillard picked up his
letter and studied it. His fingers trembled slightly as he tore open the
envelope. The handwriting, the paper, the modest size, all these pointed
to a woman of culture and refinement. But a subtle spirit of irony
pervaded it all. She would never have answered his printed inquiry had
she not laughed over it. For, pinned to the top of the letter was the
clipping, the stupid, banal clipping--"Will the lady who sang from
_Madame Angot_ communicate with gentleman who leaned out of the window?
J.H. Burgomaster Club." There was neither a formal beginning nor a
formal ending; only four crisp lines. But these implied one thing, and
distinctly: the writer had no desire for further communication "with
gentleman who leaned out of the window." He read and re-read slowly.

      I am sorry to learn that my
    singing disturbed you. There
    was a reason. At that partic-
    ular moment I was happy.

That was all. It was enough. She had laughed; she was a lady humorously
inclined, not to say mischievous. A comic-opera star would have sent her
press agent round to see what advertising could be got out of the
incident; a prima donna would have appealed to her primo tenore, for the
same purpose. A gentlewoman, surely; moreover, she lived within the
radius, the official radius of the Madison Square branch of the
post-office, for such was the postmark. Common sense urged him to
dismiss the whole affair and laugh over it as the Lady in the Fog had
done. But common sense often goes about with a pedant's strut, and is
something to avoid on occasions. Here was a harmless pastime to pursue,
common sense notwithstanding. The vein of romance in him was strong, and
all the commercial blood of his father could not subjugate it. To find
out who she was, to meet her, to know her, if possible, this was his
final determination. He rang for paper and a messenger, and wrote:
"Madame Angot. There is a letter for you in the mail-department of this
office." This time his initials were not necessary. Once the message was
on its way, he sought Merrihew, whom he found knocking the balls about
in a spiritless manner.

"A hundred to seventy-five, Dan."

"For what?"

"For the mere fun of the game, of course."

"Make it cigars, just to add interest."

"Cigars, then."

But they both played a very indifferent game. At ten-thirty Merrihew's
eyes began to haunt the clock, and Hillard grew merciful for various
reasons.

"What time does the performance end?" he asked.

"At ten-fifty, but it takes about twenty minutes to scrape off the
make-up."

"Run along, then, my son; I can spare you. And you've a cigar coming."

Merrihew agreeably put his cue in the rack.

"Much obliged for the dinner, Jack. I'll return the favor any night you
say." He made off for the coat-room.

Hillard laughed, and went up to the writing-room to fulfil a part of his
destiny. He took the letter out and read it again. A woman of wit and
presence; a mighty good dinner companion, or he was no judge of women.
He replaced the letter in its blue covering, and then for the first time
his eye met the superscription. Like a man entranced he sat there
staring. The steward had brought the letter to him, and in his first
excitement this had made no impression upon his mind; he had seen
nothing peculiar nor strange. And here it was, not his initials, but his
name in full.

She knew who he was!




CHAPTER III

MADAME ANGOT


In a fashionable quarter of the city there stood a brownstone house,
with grotesque turrets, winding steps, and glaring polished red tiles.
There was a touch of the Gothic, of the Renaissance, of the old English
manor; just a touch, however, a kind of blind-man's-buff of a house. A
very rich man lived here, but for ten months in the year he and his
family fluttered about the social centers of the world. And with a house
like this on his hands, one could scarce blame him. Twice a week, during
this absence, a caretaker came in, flourished a feather duster, and went
away again. Society reporters always referred to this house as "the
palatial residence."

This morning a woman stood in the alcove-window and looked down into the
glistening street. There was a smile on her lips, in her eyes, in the
temporary little wrinkles on either side of her nose. The Venetian red
of her hair trapped the reflected sunlight from the opposite windows,
and two little points of silver danced in her blue eyes. Ah! but her
eyes were blue; blue as spring-water in the morning, blue as the summer
sky seen through a cleft in the mountains, blue as lapis-lazuli, with
the same fibers of gold. And every feature and contour of the face
harmonized with the marvelous hair and the wonderful eyes; a beautiful
face, warm, dreamy, engaging, mobile. It was not the face of a worldly
woman; neither was it the face of a girl. It was too emotional for the
second, and there was not enough control for the first. It seemed as if
she stood on the threshold of life, with one hand lingering regretfully
in the clasp of youth and the other doubtfully greeting womanhood;
altogether, something of a puzzle.

But the prophecy of laughter did not come to pass; the little wrinkles
faded, the mouth grew sad, and the silver points no longer danced in her
eyes. The pain in her heart was always shadowing; like a jailer it
jealously watched and repressed the natural gaiety which was a part of
her. Those who have been in serious wrecks are never quite the same
afterward; and she had seen her fairest dream beaten and crumpled upon
the reef of disillusion.

Yet again the smile renewed itself. She was a creature of varying moods.
She twisted and untwisted the newspaper. Should she? Ought she? Was it
not dreadfully improper and bizarre? Had she not always regretted these
singular impulses? And yet, what harm to read this letter and return it
to the sender? She was so lonely here; it was like being among a strange
people, so long ago was it that her foot had touched this soil. Was it
possible that she was twenty-five? Was there not some miscount, and was
it not fifteen instead? As old and as wise as the Cumaean Sybil at one
moment, as light and careless as a Hebe the next. Would not this war of
wisdom and folly be decided ere long?

She opened the paper and smoothed out the folds. "Madame Angot. There is
a letter for you in the mail-department of this office." It was so
droll. It was unlike anything she had ever heard of. A personal inquiry
column, where Cupids and Psyches billed and cooed, and anxious Junos
searched for recreant Jupiters! The merest chance had thrown the
original inquiry under her notice. Her answer was an impulse to which
she had given no second thought till too late. She ought to have ignored
it. But since she had taken the first step she might as well take the
second. She was lonely; the people she knew were out of town; and the
jest might amuse her.

This man was, in all probability, a gentleman, since he was a member of
a gentlemen's club. But second thought convinced her that this proved
nothing. Men are often called gentlemen out of compliment to their
ancestors. Still, if this man only saw the affair from her angle of
vision, the grotesque humor of it and not the common vulgar intrigue!
She hesitated, as well she might. Supposing that eventually he found out
who she was? That would never, never do. No one must know that she was
in America, about to step into the wildest of wild adventures. No; she
must not be found out. The king, who had been kind to her, and the court
must never know. From their viewpoint they would have declared that she
was about to tarnish a distinguished name, to outrage the oldest
aristocracy in Europe, the court of Italy. But she had her own opinion;
what she proposed to do was in itself harmless and innocent. But this
gentleman who leaned out of the window? What should she do with him?
What had possessed her to sing at that moment? A block above or below
his window, and no one would have heard, not even the policeman. This
time the laughter bubbled. It was all so funny. She had heard every word
of their conversation. She had seen the match flare in the young man's
face. Fortunately they had not thought to peer into the area-ways. Was
it the face she had seen in that flash of light that interested her
sufficiently to risk the note? Against the dark of the night it had
appeared for an instant, clean, crisp, ruddy as a cameo. Sometimes a
single glance is enough; the instinct of the heart is often surer than
the instinct of the mind. She would not have been afraid had he found
her. The face warranted confidence.

She had sung because she had been happy, happy with that transient
happiness which at times was her portion. Could she ever judge another
man by his looks? She believed not. How she had run! The man,
bareheaded, giving chase, and the burly policeman across the street!
Chorus-ladies--what in the world were they?

She stepped down from the alcove, wound the grey veil round the
riding-crop and tossed them into a corner. Somehow, in the daylight, the
magic was gone from his face, for she had recognized him that first day
in the park. He rode well. She knew that his interest in her had been
only casual. She touched a bell. A maid appeared.

"Signora?"

"Bettina, you will go to the office of this newspaper and inquire for a
letter addressed to Madame Angot. You can speak that much English. And
be quick, for I may change my mind."

"I go at once, Signora." And she was back in less than half an hour.

"There was a letter, then?" The points were dancing again in the blue
eyes.

"And here it is, signora." The maid's eyes sparkled, too. An intrigue!
It would not be so dull hereafter.

"You may go. Perhaps," and Bettina's mistress smiled, "perhaps I may let
you read it and answer it, after I am done with it. That would be rather
neat."

"But it will be in English, signora; and that I can not read." Bettina's
eyes filled with disappointment.

"You may use it as a lesson. In a few days you should be able to master
it."

The slight nod was a dismissal, and the maid went about her duties,
which were not many in this house. These were terrible days; the two of
them alone in this strange _palazzo_, and the stuffy, ill-smelling
_trattoria_ they dined at! _Che peccato!_ And that she should sit side
by side with her mistress! _Santa Maria_, what was the good world coming
to? And the ban on the familiar tongue! English? She despised it.
German? She detested it. But to be allowed to speak in French, that
alone made conversation tolerable. And this new mad whim! Oh, yes; the
signora was truly mad this time.

Meanwhile the lady with the Venetian hair toyed with the letter. Club
paper. Evidently he was not afraid to trust her. But would he amuse her?
Would he have anything to say that would interest her? She ran the
paper-knife under the flap. The contents gave her a genuine surprise.
She ran to the window. Italian! It was written in Italian, with all the
flourishes of an Italian born. She turned to the signature. Hillard; so
he had signed his name in full? She ruminated. How came such a name to
belong to a man who wrote Italian so beautifully? Here was something to
ponder over. She smiled and looked at the signature again.... John,
Giovanni. She would call him Giovanni. She had been rather clever. To
have had the wit to look in the library for the blue book and the club
list; not every woman would have thought of that. Then a new inspiration
came to her, and she struck the bell again. She sent Bettina for the
card-basket in the lower hall. She scattered the contents upon the
floor, touched up the wood fire, and sat down Turkish-wise. She sorted
the cards carefully, and lo! she was presently rewarded. She held up the
card in triumph. He had called at this house on Thanksgiving Day. He was
known, then, to the master and mistress, this Giovanni with the Irish
surname. Very good. She now gave her full attention to the letter,
which, incredible as it may seem, she had not yet perused.

     To the Lady in the Fog--To begin with, let me say that I, too, have
     laughed. But there was some degree of chagrin in my laughter. On my
     word of honor, it was a distinct shock to my sense of dignity when
     I saw that idiotic personal of mine in the paper. It is my first
     offense of the kind, and I am really ashamed. But the situation was
     not ordinary. Ordinary women do not sing in the streets after
     midnight. As you could not possibly be ordinary, my offense has
     greater magnitude. To indite a personal to a gentlewoman! A
     thousand pardons! I doubted that it would come under your notice;
     and even if it did, I was sure that you would ignore it. And yet I
     am human enough to have hoped that you wouldn't. When I found your
     note, it was a kind of vindication; it proved that a singular
     episode had taken place. To find a woman with an appreciable sense
     of humor is rare; to find one who couples this with initiation is
     rarer still. I do not refer to wit, the eternal striving to say
     something clever, regardless of cost. How you found out my name
     confuses me.

"Indeed!" murmured the lady.

     Doubtless you have the club list in your house. Do you know, when
     the letter was brought me, I saw nothing unusual about the address.
     It was only when I began this letter that I comprehended how clever
     you were. There are half a dozen J.H's at the club. I tell you
     truthfully, over my own name, that your voice startled me. It would
     have startled me under ordinary circumstances. In New York one does
     not sing in the streets. It is considered bad form by the police.

"Thanks! I must remember that."

     I was startled, then, because my thoughts were far away. I was
     dreaming of Italy, where I was born, though there is no more
     Italian blood in my veins than there is in yours.

The ruddy head became erect and the blue eyes searched the glowing seams
in the logs. Here was a riddle.

"What made him think that, I wonder?"

     I therefore write this in a language familiar to us both, certain
     you could not sing Lecocq's songs in Italian if you did not speak
     and understand it thoroughly. Signora or signorina, whichever it
     may be, have we no mutual friends? Are you not known to some one
     who knows me? Some one who will speak for me, my character, my
     habits? Modesty forbids that I myself should dwell upon my virtues.
     I could refer you to my bankers, but money does not recommend the
     good character of a man. It merely recommends his thrift, or more
     generally that of his father.

"That will pass as wit," said the lady. "But it is rather a dull letter,
so far. But, then, he is wandering in the dark."

     You say you sang because at that moment you were happy. This
     implies that you are not always so. Surely, with a voice like yours
     one can not possibly be unhappy. If only I might meet you! Will you
     not do me that honor? I realize that this is all irregular, out of
     fashion, obsolete. But something tells me that neither of us is
     adjusted properly to prosaic environments. Isn't there just a
     little pure, healthy romance waiting to be given life? Your voice
     haunts me; out of every silence it comes to me--"She is so
     innocent, so youthful!"

     John Hillard.

The letter fluttered into her lap. She leaned on her elbows. It was not
a bad letter; and she rather liked the boyish tone of it. Nothing vulgar
peered out from between the lines. Did he really love music? He must,
for it was not every young man who could pick out the melody of an old,
forgotten opera. She shivered, but the room was warm. Had fate or chance
some ulterior purpose behind this episode? Rather than tempt fate she
decided not to answer this letter; aside from her passive superstition,
it would be neither wise nor useful. She desired to meet no strangers;
to be left to herself was all she wished. Her voice, it was all she had
that afforded her comfort and pleasure.

Romance! The word came back to her. With an unmusical laugh she stood
up, shaking the letter to the floor. Romance! She was no longer a girl;
she was a woman of five and twenty; and what should a woman know of
romance? Ah, there had been a time when all the world was romance,
romance; when the night breeze had whispered it under her
casement-window, when the lattice-climbing roses had breathed it, when
the moon and the stars had spelled it. Romance! She hated the word not
less than she hated the Italian language, the Italian people, the
country itself. She spurned the letter with her foot and fed the
newspaper to the fire. She would let Bettina answer the letter.

She went down-stairs to the piano and played with strong feeling.
Presently she began to sing a haunting melancholy song by Abt. From Abt
she turned to Flotow; from Offenbach to Rossini; from Gounod to Verdi.
The voice was now sad or gay, now tender or wild. She was mistress of
every tone, every shade, every expression.

The door opened gradually. The little maid's face was moved to rapture
over these exquisite sounds.

Crash! It was over.

"Bettina? Bettina, are you listening?"

"I am always listening." Bettina squeezed into the room. "I had not the
heart to interrupt. It is beautiful, beautiful! To sing like that!"
Then, with a burst of confidence: "There will be kings and dukes at your
feet!"

"Enough!"

"Pardon, signora, I forgot. But listen; I bring a message. A boy came to
say that the rehearsal will be at four this afternoon. It is now after
twelve."

"So late? I did not know. We must be off to lunch."

"And the letter up-stairs on the floor?"

"Some day, Bettina, you will enter the Forbidden Chamber, and I shall
have to play Bluebeard. This time, however, I do not mind. Leave it
there or burn it," indifferently.

Bettina knew her mistress. She thought best to leave the letter where it
lay, forgotten for the time being.




CHAPTER IV

BLINDFOLDED


For two days the club steward only nodded when Hillard came in; he had
no letters to present.

"I am thirty-three years old," Hillard mused, as he sought the
reading-room. "Down-town I am looked upon as a man of affairs, a
business man, with the care of half a dozen fortunes on my hands. Now,
what's the matter with me? I begin to tremble when I look that sober old
steward in the face. If he had handed me a letter to-night, I should
have had to lean against the wall for support. This will never do at
all. I have not seen her face, I do not know her name; for all I know,
she may be this Leddy Lightfinger.... No, that would be impossible.
Leddy Lightfinger would have made an appointment. What possesses me to
dwell in this realm of fancy, which is less tangible than a cloud of
smoke? Have I reached my dotage by the way of the seven-league boots? Am
I simply bored with the monotony of routine, and am I groping blindly
for a new sensation?" He smoked thoughtfully. "Or, am I romantic? To
create romance out of nothing; I used to do that when I was a boy. But
I'm a boy no longer. Or, _am_ I a boy, thirty-three years old?... She
does not answer my letter. Sensible woman. In her place I shouldn't
answer it. But in my place I want her to. Two weeks ago I was haunting
the curio-shops for a Roman cameo two thousand years old; to-night I
might take it as a gift. I have ceased to be interested in something
that has always interested me. Something is wrong; what is it? She sent
for my letter. That indicates that she read it. Well, well!" reaching
for the _London Illustrated News_; "let's see what their Majesties have
been doing the past fortnight."

The King of England was preparing to descend to the Riviera; the King of
Spain was killing pigeons; the Kaiser was calling for more battleships;
the Czar of all the Russias was still able to sit for his photograph;
the King of Italy was giving a fete; and Leopold of Belgium was winning
at Monte Carlo. Among the lesser nobles the American duchesses were
creating a favorable impression in spite of their husbands.

"What a fine sensation it must be," Hillard murmured, "to be able at any
time to plunge one's noble white hand into a sack of almost
inexhaustible American dollars!"

He dropped the paper. The same old stories, warmed over. There was
really nothing new in the world. If Giovanni returned to Italy in the
spring, he was of a mind to go with him. He looked up and was glad to
see Merrihew in the doorway.

"Been looking for you, Jack. Want your company to-night. Kitty Killigrew
is giving a little bite to eat after the performance, and has asked me
to bring you along. Will you come?"

"With pleasure, Dan. Are you dining with any one to-night?" Hillard was
lonesome.

"Yes. A little bridge till eleven."

"You're hopeless. I can see you in limbo, matching coffin-plates with
Charon. I'll hunt you up at eleven."

"Heard the talk?"

"About what?"

"Why, some one in the club has been using the agony column. The J.H's
are being guyed unmercifully, and you'll come in for it presently. It's
a case of wine on the man who did it."

Hillard felt of his collar and drew down his cuffs. "Probably some
joke," he ventured tentatively.

"If it isn't, the man who would stoop to such tommyrot and tack the name
of his club to it must be an ass."

"No doubt about that. Odd that this is the first time I have heard about
it." But silently Hillard was swearing at his folly. There was one crumb
of comfort: the incident would be forgotten in a few days.

"I may depend upon you to-night, then?" said Merrihew.

"I shall be pleased to meet Miss Killigrew," which was a white one.
Hillard would have paid court to a laundress rather than offend
Merrihew.

And promptly at eleven he went up to the card-room and dragged Merrihew
away. Merrihew gave up his chair reluctantly. He was winning. He would
have been just as reluctant, however, had he been losing. The amateur
gambler never wants to stop.

On the way to the Killigrew apartment, Merrihew's moods varied. At one
moment he was on the heights, at the next in the depths. He simply could
not live without Kitty. Perhaps if this trip abroad turned out badly she
might change her mind. Seven thousand _could_ be made to muster. Twice
Hillard came very near making his friend a confidant of his own affair;
but he realized that, while Merrihew was to be trusted in all things, it
was not yet time.

He found a pleasing and diverting company. There was Mere Killigrew, a
quaint little old lady who deplored her daughter's occupation but
admitted that without her success, Heaven only knew how they would have
got along. There was the genial Thomas O'Mally, a low-comedian of
genuine ability, whom Hillard knew casually; Smith, a light-comedian;
and Worth, a moderately successful barytone to whom Hillard took one of
those instant and unaccountable dislikes. These three and Kitty were
going abroad. And there were several members of _The Modern Maid_
company, which went on tour the following Monday.

Kitty fancied Hillard from the start; and he on his side found her well
educated, witty and unaffected. She was even prettier than her
photograph. Merrihew's face beamed upon them both, in a kind of
benediction. He had known all along that once Jack saw Kitty, he would
become a good ally in fighting down her objections.

"Think of singing in Italy!" cried Kitty. "Isn't it just wonderful?"

"And has Merrihew told you to get a return ticket before you sail?" with
half a jest.

"Don't you think it will be successful?" a shade of disappointment.
"There will be thousands of lonesome Americans over there. Out of
patriotism, if for nothing else, they ought to come and see us."

"They certainly ought to. But I'm an old killjoy."

"No, no; go on and tell me all your doubts. You have been over there so
many times."

"Well, supposing your tourists are tired, after having walked all day
through the churches and galleries? They may want to go to bed early.
But you never can tell till you try. You may become the rage on the
continent. Yet, you go into the enemy's country. It isn't the same as
going to London, among tolerant cousins. In Italy and in Germany there
is always so much red tape, blundering, confusing red tape, custom
duties, excessive charges. But your manager must know what he is doing."

"He has everything in black and white, I believe. But your advice is
sensible."

"Do you know anything about Italy or Germany?"

"Only what I learned in my geographies," laughing. "Rome, Florence,
Genoa, Venice, Nice, Milan, Strasburg, Cologne, and on to Berlin! It is
like a fairy story come true."

"Who is your prima donna?" he asked.

"Ah!" Kitty's face became eager with excitement. "Now you have put your
finger on the mystery that is bothering us all. Not one of us has seen
her or knows her name. She has not rehearsed with us and will not till
we reach Naples, where we rest a week. When we speak of her, the manager
smiles and says nothing; and as none of us has seen the backer, Mr.
Worth thinks that she herself is the prima donna and backer in one. We
think that she is some rich young woman who wishes to exploit her voice.
There's a lot of them in the world. I wish I knew her. I am dying of
curiosity. The manager is not a man to fool away his time. She doubtless
can act and sing. Little has been said about the venture in the papers,
and I'm glad. We may prove a perfect fizzle, and the less said the
better. As we can't walk back, I must learn to swim.... Lunch is ready,
every one!"

The mummers and the outsiders flocked into the small dining-room. There
was plenty to eat--beer, soda, whisky, and two magnums of champagne,
Merrihew's contribution to the feast. Hillard listened with increasing
amusement to the shop-talk. Such and such a person (absent) never could
act; such and such a composer (absent) was always giving the high note
to the wrong singer; such and such a manager (absent) never staged the
opera right. It was after one when they returned to the sitting-room,
where the piano stood. The wine was now opened and toasts were drunk.
O'Mally told inimitable stories. There was something exceedingly droll
in that expressive Irish face of his and the way he lingered over his
wine.

[Illustration: O'Mally told inimitable stories]

"There is nothing so good as a glass of champagne," he observed, "unless
it is another."

Worth did not drink, but Hillard did not like his handsome face any the
more for this virtue. He sang remarkably well, however, and with a
willingness Hillard had not believed he possessed. He wondered vaguely
why he disliked the man. He had never met him before, and knew nothing
at all about him. It was one of those inexplicable things which can not
be answered. Otherwise Hillard enjoyed himself vastly. He found these
people full of hope, light-hearted, generous, intelligent, and generally
improvident.

"Mr. Merrihew has been telling me all about you," said Kitty.

"You mean, of course, my good qualities," replied Hillard.

"To hear him talk, one would think that you possessed nothing else. But
I am sure that you have glaring faults, such as a man might pass over
and a woman go round."

"I believed that Merrihew had a serious fault till to-night," he said;
and he made no attempt to disguise the admiration in his eyes.

She looked at him quickly and colored. It was a good sign.

"Has the foolish boy been telling you that I refused to marry him? I
like him very much," she added gravely; "but I shall never marry any man
till I have ceased to love the stage. Just now I can not wisely love
anything else."

"I understand," he said.

"I am not a whit less extravagant than he is. How could the two of us
live on an income which he himself admits that he can not live within?
But that isn't it; a million would not make any difference. I am like a
young colt; I have no desire to be harnessed yet. A month after I am
gone he will forget all about me; or, at least, he will only recollect
me with a sigh of relief. There will be others; only I hope they will
treat him as frankly as I have done."

"Merrihew is the most loyal man I know," Hillard declared, bound to
defend his comrade against this shrewd insight to his character.

"Of course he is loyal! And he is always in earnest--for the moment."
She laughed. "But if he marries any one while I am gone, I shall hate
him."

And then they both laughed.

"I'll wager another magnum," cried Merrihew from across the room, "that
I'm the subject under discussion."

"Another magnum!" murmured O'Mally rapturously.

"No more magnums," said Kitty resolutely.

"On abstract principles, then!" insisted Merrihew.

"You win," Kitty replied merrily. "We have been saying only nice things
about you."

It was outrageously late, nearly four, when the revelers took leave of
their hostess. Merrihew was happy with that evanescent happiness which
goes hand in glove with late suppers and magnums. In the morning he
would have a headache.

"Isn't she a little wonder, Jack? Do you blame me?"

"Not at all, Dan. It might be a good thing for you to marry a sensible
little woman like that. But she won't have you."

"No, she won't." Merrihew reached for his watch. "Four A.M. Wonder if we
can't find another bottle somewhere."

"You are going home, my boy."

"All right, if you say so,"--good-humoredly. "Say, what do you think of
that man Worth?"

"Very good voice; but he's too handsome. Being a plain duffer myself, I
don't take kindly to handsome men."

"Oh, go on! You're as fine a looking chap as there's in New York. But
this man Worth has the looks of a lady-killer. He's been eying Kitty,
but it doesn't go. Hang it, I can't see why she won't marry me now.
She's got to, some time or other."

"You must have patience."

"Or more money. Can't O'Mally tell a good story, though?"

"Good company, too; but I should hate to turn him loose in my
wine-cellars. I imagine that he's not a connoisseur, and will praise
anything that's good to drink, unless it's water."

Merrihew roared.

"Well, here's your station, Dan. You go home like a good boy. Shall I
see you to-morrow?"

"Eight-thirty in the park. Gallop off headache. Nothing like a horse for
a headache. Good night."

Merrihew climbed the elevated stairs and vanished. Hillard arrived home
tired and sleepy; but as he saw a letter on the stand in the hall, his
drowsiness passed quickly. There was no other blue envelope like it. She
now had his house address; she was interested enough to look it up. She
did not follow his lead and write in Italian; she wrote in
English--crisp English, too. Again there was neither beginning nor
ending. But this was a letter; there was something here of the woman,
something to read and read again.

     I had told the maid to burn your letter. But she left it on the
     floor where I had thrown it, and I came across it this morning. It
     looked rather pathetic. So I am writing you against my better
     judgment. Yes, I know your name; I find that I am well acquainted
     with people you know. I am a woman who often surrenders to the
     impulse of the moment; I may or may not answer any future letter
     from you. You write very good Italian; but it will surprise you to
     learn that I detest all things that are Italian. Once I loved them
     well. Why should you wish to know me? Our ways are as divergent as
     the two poles. Happy because I sing? There are some things over
     which we can sing or laugh, but of which we can not speak without
     crying. Happy or unhappy, what can this matter to you? To you I
     shall always remain the Lady in the Fog. Are you rich, young,
     talented? I care not in the least. Perhaps it amuses me to add to
     your confusion. Find me? I think not. Seek me? Do so; I permit you
     to. And would you know me if you found me? Misguided energy!

Hillard put the letter away, extinguished the lights, and passed up to
his room. She defied him to find her? This was a direct challenge. He
would accept it. This time he would use no personal to tell her that a
letter awaited her. She should make the inquiries herself. And from the
mail-clerk he would obtain a description of the elusive Madame Angot.
Next morning he rode in the park with Merrihew. Again he saw the veiled
lady on the Sandford black. Out of normal curiosity he telephoned the
stables and made inquiries. The reply was short. No one at the stables
knew the lady, but she rode the horse on proper authority.

That night he wrote:

     I shall keep on writing till you cease to reply. Let me be frank
     with you. I am bored; so are you. The pleasure you derive in
     keeping up this mystery engages you. You bid me to find you. I
     accept the challenge. You must understand at once that it is the
     mystery that interests me. It is the unknown that attracts me. I am
     mentally painting you in all sorts of radiant colors. You defy me
     to find you. There is nothing so reliable as the unexpected,
     nothing so desperately uncertain as a thing assured. I warn you
     that I shall lay all manner of traps, waylay your messengers, bribe
     them. I shall find out where you live. The rest will be simple.

She replied:

     I have no desire to alleviate your confessed boredom. Your
     persistence would be praiseworthy if well directed. Waters wear away
     stone, the wind crumbles the marble, but a woman is not moved till
     she wishes to be. I never thought that I should dabble in an
     intrigue of this sort, and I am surprised at the amusement it
     affords me. I really owe you some gratitude. The few I have met who
     know you tell me that you are a "nice young man."

He rebelled at the adjective. Every man has some portion of self-love.
So his next effort was a passionate denial that he was nice. When should
he meet her? The postman brought him a letter which contained one
word--_Nimmer!_ He sent her four pages, a frank and witty description of
himself and friends, his past and some of theirs.

On the day she received this letter a cablegram came to her from the far
Mediterranean. Whatever it contained had the effect to cause all
restraint to disappear from the tone of her letters. They became
charming; and more and more Hillard found himself loving a Voice. All
his watching, all his traps, came to no successful end. She was too
clever for him. He sought the mail-department of the great newspaper;
the clerk couldn't remember, there were so many calling for mail.
Letters passed to and fro daily now, but always she declared that it was
impossible for them to meet. To write a letter was one thing, to meet a
strange man in an unconventional manner was another. No, it was out of
the question to dine with him in a restaurant. It was equally out of the
question to cook a dinner where she lived, as she and her maid dined at
a small restaurant near-by. Would he not be content with the romance and
let the reality go? Finally he proposed to bring the dinner all cooked
from the club. Two days went by without a sign; then the blue letter
came.

     I surrender. The most fatal thing in life is curiosity. It has the
     power to lead us into all manner of trouble. And I have my share of
     curiosity. Remember, you never would have found me. I may dwell in
     a garret; I may be hideous; perhaps nothing remains to me but my
     voice. Whatever you have painted me in your imagination, I tell you
     that I shall prove directly the opposite. And now the terms. And if
     you do not follow them confidently and blindly, your dinner will
     grow cold in the carriage. Dinner will be at eight, February first.
     At seven a carriage will call for you. The messenger will blindfold
     you. He will then proceed to the club and take the dinner, and
     bring you here. Be warned! If you so much as lift the corner of the
     bandage, the romance will end then and there. It is necessary to
     enforce these conditions, but it is not necessary to explain why. I
     realize that I am doing something very foolish and unwise. But, as
     you say, I am a woman who has seen much of the world. Thus I have
     my worldly side. I shall use it as a buffer.

"Blindfolded!" Hillard scrubbed his chin. All these precautions! Who was
she? What was she? An ordinary young woman, full of mischief, or was she
what he hoped, a real mystery? He was well on the way to find out. Since
there was no escape, blindfolded he would go.

At half after six, on the night of the first of February, then, he began
to dress. It was some time since he had taken such particular care.

"The signore seems in high spirits to-night," observed Giovanni, as he
laid out the linen.

"Man, I'm happy and greatly excited. Do you recollect the lady who sang
under my window? I am going to meet her to-night. The mystery will be a
mystery no longer."

"Who is she?" asked Giovanni sharply. It was rarely he asked a question
with such directness.

But his master was too excited to note it. "On my word, I don't know who
she is, Giovanni. She has written such charming letters! She may be only
a singer; she may be a Russian princess in exile; she may be an
adventuress of the most formidable type; she may be an American girl.
One thing, she is not English. English women as I have found them lack
the essential spirit of adventure."

"Ah!" Giovanni stroked his lips doubtfully. "It is not like the signore
to plunge blindly into adventures like this."

"The very word, blindly. I go blindfolded, _amico_. What do you think of
that?"

"Blindfolded?" Giovanni was horrified. "It is a trap!" he cried. "They
will assassinate you! No, you shall not go! In Rome, at the carnivals,
it is an old game. They will rob you."

"You are dreaming. This is America; things are not done that way here.
And nothing now can turn me aside." Hillard was all the while finishing
his toilet.

"I suppose not. But blindfolded!"

"Take the number of the cab as I get in. If anything should happen, give
the number to the police."

Giovanni, with a sharp movement of the hands, expressed his resignation
to the worst. He knew the futility of arguing with his master. But he
followed him down to the hall and tied on the bandage himself. He was
honest about it, too, for Hillard could see nothing. Then the
messenger-boy took him by the hand and led him to the carriage. As the
two were climbing in, Giovanni spoke rapidly in his native tongue.

"There is no number on the carriage!"

"Too late to bother now."

The carriage rolled off toward the club, where the dinner, hot and
smoking, was taken on.

"Joinin' th' Elks?" asked the boy, when they were well under way once
more.

"No, it's a seance. They are going to call up my fate round a table."

"Huh? Aw, go-wan! Dey don't call up no ghosts wit' French cider and hot
boids." The boy relapsed into silence.

Hillard tried to follow the turns of the carriage, but these were too
many; and so he resigned himself to become totally lost. By and by the
carriage stopped.

"Dis is where we alights, me loid!" the boy jeered. "An' no lookin',
mind."

Hillard found the carriage steps and landed safely. He stood for a
moment, listening. They were in a quiet part of the city; no elevated or
surface cars were near. He was assured that the location was exclusive.
Garrets are not to be found in quiet places.

"Look out fer th' steps," said the boy, again taking Hillard by the
hand.

"And you be careful of that basket."

"I ain't lettin' it drop any."

Winding steps, thought the blindfolded man. He could recollect none. It
seemed to him that they stood there five minutes before the door opened.
When it did, the boy passed in the basket and resolutely pushed Hillard
into the hall. The door closed gently, and the adventure was begun.
Whither would it lead him?

"Take off the bandage the signore may now," said a voice in broken
English.

"Thanks!" He tore the handkerchief from his eyes and blinked. The hall
was so dimly lighted that he could see nothing distinctly.

"The signore's coat and hat."

He passed over these articles, shook the wrinkles from his trousers,
smoothed his chin, and stood at attention. The maid eyed him with
abundant approval, then knocked timidly on the door leading to the
drawing-room. He was sure of one thing: this was some millionaire's
home. What if he should see in the drawing-room a party of his intimate
friends, ready to plague and jest? He shuddered. He never had
entertained such an appalling probability.

"_Avanti!_" called a soft voice from within.

Hillard gathered in his courage, opened the door and stepped inside. A
single lamp in a far corner drew his glance, which roved a moment later.
On a divan near this lamp sat a woman in black. Only a patch of white
throat could be seen, for her shoulders were not bare and her arms only
to the elbows. Her back was turned squarely. He could see nothing of her
face. But what a head! He caught his breath. It glowed like a
copper-beech in the sunshine. What was it? There was something,
something he could not see.

"Madame?" he faltered. He had had a gallant Italian phrase to turn for
her benefit. He spoke English instead, and not very firmly.

The woman turned. Hillard took a step backward and blundered against a
pedestal.

She was masked!




CHAPTER V

THE MASK


Masked! Only her mouth and chin were visible, and several little pieces
of court-plaster effectually disguised these. There _was_ a mystery. He
to come blindfolded and she to wear a mask! Extraordinary! There was
something more than a jest: she really did not wish to be known, and the
reason lay far back of all this, beyond his grasp. He stood there
dumfounded. She rose. The movement was elegant.

"And this," she said ironically, "is the gentleman who leaned out of the
window?"

He brought all his faculties together, for he knew that he would need
them in this encounter. "Supposing I had fallen out of it? Well, it
could not have mattered. I should not have been more at your feet than I
am now." This was very good, considering how dry his tongue was.

"If you had fallen out? I had not thought of that. A modern Ulysses,
house-broken, and an itinerant siren! You had been wise to have stuffed
your ears that night."

"My mythology is rusty. And I much prefer Penelope. She interests me
vastly more than the ancient prize-fighter."

"But sit down, Mr. Hillard, sit down." The lady with the mask motioned
him to a chair directly under the light. She wished to study his face
while she talked.

Hillard reached the chair successfully enough, but he never could
recollect how. He sat down as a bashful man sits down in a crowded
ball-room, with his knees drawn in tightly and his feet at sympathetic
angles. He knew that she would have the best of him in this engagement.
All the bright things to say would come to him after he had gone home.
It was far easier to write letters. That mask! One might as well
converse with the Sphinx. His face was hers to study; her emotions would
be wholly her own.

Presently she laughed with malice.

"You are not comfortable in that chair."

"That is true; and yet it is soft and roomy. I am uneasy. Perhaps you
recall to my subconsciousness a period in my former existence on earth;
or, if you will, one of my ancestors."

"I fail to understand."

"Well, a Hillard two hundred years ago had his head cut off by an ax.
His executioner wore a mask."

"A mistake. Your ancestor should have been hanged."

"And I along with him, you would imply?"

"Are you not Irish? I have known Irishmen by the name of Hillard."

"They were in disguise. But I have a generous strain of Irish blood in
me. Otherwise I shouldn't have had the courage to follow up an adventure
like this."

"Thanks. The compliment is rather ambiguous."

"My compliments can not possibly be more ambiguous than your appearance.
Surely, there will be an hour for unmasking."

"It has already begun, Mr. Hillard."

"So I am the one who is to be unmasked? Well, I have only the mask
nature gave to me. I wish she had been more liberal. But I shall see
what can be done with it."

"Is there any mask quite so terrible, quite so deceptive, as this very
mask nature gives us? Can it not lie adroitly, break hearts, overthrow
empires? You can judge a character by this mask sometimes, but never the
working of the mind behind it." She resumed her seat on the divan.

"I wish I could read yours."

"And much good it would do you." She smiled, rather ruefully Hillard
thought.

He took note of her teeth, and felt a sudden tinge of regret. One may
disguise the face and hair, but the teeth are always the same. Two lower
teeth on the right side appeared to be gone; the others were firm and
glistening white. It was a pity, for a woman's teeth are as much her
glory as her hair.

"I am curious to learn what you brought for dinner."

He enumerated the delicacies.

"You have evidently studied your Lucullus," she said.

Silence. The ruddy light on her hair fascinated him.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Your hair," with a simplicity which silenced her. "You have the most
beautiful hair I have ever seen."

"Thank you. And yet, for all you know, it may be a fine wig."

"If it is, I shall never be sure of anything again. Am I in prosaic New
York? Have you not, by some carpet-magic, transported me to old Europe?
If a dozen conspirators came in in cowls to render me the oath, I should
not be at all surprised."

"There is no magic; only a mask."

"And there is no way of seeing behind that?"

"None, absolutely none. I am told that you are a gentleman; so I am
confident that you will not stoop to use force."

"Only the force of eloquence, if ever I may lay claim to that again."

"You are beginning well. For I tell you, Mr. Hillard, I shall expect but
the most brilliant wit from you to-night. As for me, I shall only
interpolate occasionally. Now, begin."

"I am not used to dancing without the pole."

"You must learn. Dance!"

"Upon what--nothing? And how shall I know that my dancing pleases you?"

"I agree to tell you. I wear this mask to-night because I am taking a
surreptitious leaf out of my book of cares."

"Cares? Have you any?"

"If I were without cares it would not be necessary to seek diversions of
this equivocal character." She crossed her arms. The magic of old Venice
seemed at that moment to enfold her.

"You are, then, seeking a diversion?"

"Nothing more or less. Do not flatter yourself that there is anything
personal or romantic on my side. I am bored."

"I am wholly in your hands," he said; "and they are very beautiful
hands."

"Is there anything more beautiful than a cat's paw, when the claws are
hidden? Never judge a woman by her hands." Nevertheless she buried her
hands in the depths of a down-pillow. She had forgotten her rings. She
slipped them off and managed to hide them.

"I promise to remember. Your letters--" he began diffidently. Where the
deuce was his tongue? Was he to be tongue-tied all the evening before
this Columbine, who, with the aid of her mask, was covertly laughing at
his awkwardness?

"My letters? A woman often writes what she will not say, and says what
she will not write. Did you not ask me to disillusion you?"

"Yes, but softly, softly. I begin to believe one thing: you brought me
here to teach me a lesson. Gentlemen should never use the personal
column."

"Nor should ladies read it. I am not saving any mercy for myself!" with
laughter.

"Shall I begin with my past?"

"Something less horrifying, if you please!"

"I object to the word nice," he said, seeking a new channel, for he was
not steering very well in those he had so far selected.

"The word was employed negligently. Your friends used the word."

"I should have preferred milksop!" He was growing impatient. "Hadn't you
better try some new kind of torture?"

"This is only a skirmish; your real torture hasn't even begun yet. But
this will give you an appetite. I do not drink champagne, but the
chambertin will do nicely. Oh, I propose that you shall pay for this
dinner, Mr. Hillard; pay for the privilege of sharing it with me."

"Bring on the check. I should like to settle the bill at once, and have
it off my mind."

"You may take off your gloves," she countered. "I know that you must
feel uncomfortable with them on. To clasp one's own hands is a kind of
personal sympathy. Try it."

He drew them off, not ungracefully, and tucked them away. He spread his
thin brown muscular fingers a few times, then folded his arms.

"You look quite Napoleonic in that pose."

"If this were only Elba and not St. Helena! I should be coming back to
you some day."

"I shall credit that against the partridges."

This time her laughter was relaxed and joyful. And somehow he felt more
at ease. He was growing accustomed to the mask. He stretched his legs
and fingered his nether lip.

"Have you not somewhere an invisible cloak?"

"I had one that night, which nature lent me," she answered readily. "I
was so invisible to you that I heard the policeman call out your name. I
thank you for insisting that I was not a chorus-lady."

Here was a revelation which accounted for many things. "I haven't been
very fortunate so far in this adventure."

"That is rank ingratitude. I am of the opinion that fortune has highly
favored you."

"But the mask, the mask! If you heard the policeman call my name, you
must have heard him speak of one Leddy Lightfinger."

"I did indeed. And is it not possible that I am that very person?"

Hillard dropped his hand toward his watch. "Why do you hate Italy?"

She sat straight, and what little he could see of her mouth had
hardened.

"There will be no retrospection this evening, if you please," her voice
rather metallic.

The mystery lifted its head again. One does not hate a country without a
strong and vital reason. Was Giovanni partly right, after all? Was this
a kind of trap, a play to gain his interest? Was her singing under his
window purely accidental? She hated Italy. The State or the Church? More
likely the State. And what had the State done to her or she to the
State? A conspirator, in need of funds and men? If this was the case,
she was not going about her cause scientifically. Italy had no hold upon
anything of his save his love of beauty. Perhaps her reason for hating
Italy was individual and singular: as she would have hated any other
country, had her unhappiness originated there.

"Will you not sing?" he asked. This was an inspiration. Music might
assist in melting her new reserve.

"You recollect, then, that I possess a voice?"

"It is all I have to recollect. Tell me, whither is all this to lead?"

"To the door, and into the fog again."

"On my word, I'm half inclined to believe you to be an anarchist or a
Red, or something on that order."

"On account of my hair?" She laughed again. "Put yourself at ease. I am
neither Leddy Lightfinger nor a socialist. There are no dynamite bombs
in this house. I despise any organization which aims to destroy society.
Society is bad enough as it is; but think of trying to readjust it!"

"I give up the puzzle."

"That is better."

It is difficult to seek and hold a pair of eyes partly hidden behind a
mask. Several times he made the attempt, but his eyes were first to
lower.

Her severity, her irony and her apparent lack of warmth were mere
matters of calculation. Her plan was to inspire him with trepidation, to
keep him always at arm's length, for his own safety as well as hers. She
knew something of men. Even the best, if suddenly thrown into an affair
so strange as this, might commit an irreparable blunder; and this she
did not want Hillard to do. She was secretly pleased with his strong
face and shapely head. There was neither beard nor mustache to hide the
virtues or defects. The chin was square but not heavy, the mouth
humorous, kindly and firm, the nose bridged; and the brown eyes, sleepy
yet with latent fires, were really handsome. She knew all about him; she
was not afraid to be alone with him; nor was it really necessary to wear
a mask. But the romance in her heart, that she believed to be dead, was
not dead, only waiting to be rekindled. True, they were never to meet
again; it was all to begin to-night and end to-night. No man was likely
to forget a face met under such whimsical and extraordinary
circumstances; so he must not have hers to remember. She arose.

"I will sing!"

"That is more than I dared to hope." He made as though to rise.

"Sit down. I do not play by note; my memory is very good. While I am
singing I should much prefer you to remain where you are."

He obeyed without protest, and she went to the piano. Above the
instrument was a rare old Venetian mirror; in it he could see her face
fairly well. And where had he seen that mirror before?

"What shall it be?" she asked, and he forgot the mirror.

"The song you sang under my window."

"But that is for the male voice!"

"You sang it very well, nevertheless. I have a good memory, too." He
leaned forward, his arms crossed on his knees. Was there ever, in all
the world, such an Arabian night?

She sang, but without that buoyant note of the first night. One after
another he called out the popular airs of the old light operas. She had
them all on her tongue's end.

"Light opera appeals to you?" She had followed in the mirror his
slightest move. Was she disappointed?

Where had he seen that copy of Botticelli before? If only there was a
little more light.

"Pardon me," he said. "You asked--?"

She repeated her question, wondering what had drawn his attention.

"I like my grand opera after dinner. After dinner I shall want Verdi,
Berlioz, Gounod."

"But after dinner I may not care to sing." She spoke in German.

He was not expecting this tongue; besides, his German had never been a
finished product. For all that, he made a passable reply.

"You speak as many languages as a Swiss hotel-concierge."

"I wish I did. My mother had one idea in regard to my youth: I should
speak four languages and eventually become a great diplomat. As it
stands, I speak indifferent French and German, and am not in the
diplomatic service. My mother had one of the loveliest voices. It was a
joy to hear her speak, now Italian, now German, now French. She
understood that in these days one does not travel far with Greek and
Latin, though they come in handy when you strike old inscriptions. We
were great comrades. It was rare fun to go with her on an
antique-hunting expedition. They never fooled her nor got the better of
her in a bargain."

She liked the way he spoke of his mother.

"But you," he said; "you are not Italian."

She smiled.

"You are neither French, German nor English."

She still smiled, but to the smile she added a gentle shrug.

"You are American--like myself!" he hazarded.

Her fingers stirred over the keys again, and Grieg's _Papillon_
fluttered softly from flower to flower.




CHAPTER VI

INTO THE FOG AGAIN


He sat there, waiting and listening. From the light and airy butterfly,
the music changed to Farwell's _Norwegian Song_. Hillard saw the lonely
sea, the lonely twilight, the lonely gull wheeling seaward, the lonely
little cottage on the cliffs, and the white moon in the far east. And
presently she spoke, still playing softly.

"My father was an American, my mother Italian. But I have lived in
Europe nearly all my life. There! You have more of my history than I
intended telling you." The music went dreamily.

"I knew it. Who but an American woman would have the courage to do what
you are doing to-night? Who but one of mine own countrywomen would trust
me so wholly and accept me so frankly for what I am, an American
gentleman?"

"Softly!" she warned. "You will dig a pit for your vanity."

"No. I am an American gentleman, and I am proud of it; though this
statement in your ears may have a school-boy ring."

"A nobility in this country? Impossible!"

"Not the kind you find in the _Almanach de Gotha_. I speak of the
nobility of the heart and the mind." He was very much in earnest now.

"Indeed!" The music stopped, and she turned. She regarded his
earnestness with favor.

"I have traveled much; I have found noblemen everywhere, in all climes,
and also I have found beasts. Oh, I confess that my country is not
wholly free from the beast. But the beast here is a beast; shunned,
discredited, outcast. On the other side, if he be mentioned in the
_Almanach_, they give him sashes and decorations. And they credit us
with being money-mad! It is not true. It is proved every day in the
foreign cables that our love for money is not one-tenth so strong as
that which our continental cousins evince."

"But if you are not money-mad, why these great fortunes?" dubiously.

"At a certain age a fortune in this country doubles itself without any
effort on the part of the owner. Few of us marry for money; and when we
do, we at least have the manhood to keep the letter of our bargain. We
do not beat the wife, nor impoverish her, nor thrust opera-singers into
the house she shares with us."

"And when you marry?"

"Well, it is generally the woman we love. Dowries are not considered.
There is no social law which forbids a dowerless girl to marry a
dowerless man," laughing. "But over there it is always and eternally a
business contract simply. You know that."

"Yes, a business contract," listlessly.

"And yet these foreigners call us a business nation! Well, we are,
outside our homes. But in the home we are husbands and fathers; most of
us live cleanly and honestly; we make our homes our havens and our
heavens. But of course there is always the beast. But they talk of
nobility on the other side. That is it; they talk, talk. Italy, France,
Germany! Why, I had rather be the son of an English farmer than a prince
on the continent. And I had rather be what I am than the greatest
nobleman in England."

"Go on, go on! I like it. What do you call it--jingo?"

"Call it what you will. Look at the men we produce. Three or four
hundred years ago Europe gave us great poets, great artists, great
soldiers, great churchmen, and great rascals. I admire a great rascal,
when he is a Napoleon, a Talleyrand, a Machiavelli; but a petty one! We
have no art, no music, no antiquity; but we have a race of gentlemen.
The old country is not breeding them nowadays."

"No, she simply prints new editions of the _Almanach_. Continue; I am
becoming illumined."

"If I am boring you?"

"No. I have the greatest admiration for the American gentleman. My
father was one. But I have met Americans who are not so loyal as you
are, who see no good in their native land."

"I said we have beasts; I forgot to mention the cads. I am perfectly
frank. Italy is the most beautiful country in the world; France is
incomparable; Germany possesses a rugged beauty which I envy for my
country's sake. Every square foot of it is cultivated; nowhere the
squalidity one sees among the farm-houses of this country. Think of the
histories, the romance, the art, the music! America has little history;
and, saving the wildernesses, it is not beautiful; but it is generous
and bountiful and healthy mentally. Europe is a story-world, and I
should like nothing better than to read it to the end of my days."

"Signora, dinner is served!" The little maid stood between the sliding
doors which gave entrance to the dining-room.

Signora! thought Hillard. He certainly would look at her hands again.

"After you, Mr. Hillard," she said.

He bowed and passed on before her. But not till he had passed did he
understand the manoeuver. To follow her would have been nothing less
than the temptation to pluck at the strings of her mask. Would he have
touched it? He could not say, the temptation not having been his.

That dinner! Was he in New York? Was it not Bagdad, the bottle and the
genii? Had he ever, even in his most romantic dreams, expected to turn a
page so charming, so enchanting, or so dangerous to his peace of mind? A
game of magical hide-and-seek? To see, yet to be blindfolded! Here,
across the small table, within arm's length, was a woman such as, had he
been a painter, he must have painted; a poet, he must have celebrated in
silken verse. Three-and-thirty? No, he was only a lad this night. All
his illusions had come back again. At a word from this mysterious woman,
he would have started out on any fool's errand, to any fool's land.

And she? A whim, a fantastic, unaccountable whim; the whim of a woman
seeking forgetfulness, not counting the cost nor caring; simply a whim.
She had brought him here to crush him for his impertinence; and that
purpose was no longer in her mind. Was she sorry? Did he cause her some
uneasiness, some regret and sadness? It was too late. There could be no
Prince Charming in her world. He had tarried too long by the way. Not
that there was the least sentiment in her heart regarding him; but his
presence, his freshness, his frank honesty, these caused her to resort
to comparisons. It was too late indeed.

On the little table was a Tuscany brass lamp of three wicks, fed by
olive oil. It was sufficient to light the table, but the rest of the
room was sunk in darkness. He half understood that there was a definite
purpose in this semi-illumination: she had no wish that he should by
chance recognize anything familiar in this house. Dimly he could see the
stein-rack and the plate-shelf running around the walls. Sometimes, as
the light flickered, a stein or a plate stood out boldly, as if to
challenge his memory.

He watched her hands. The fingers were free from rings. Was she single
or married? The maid had called her signora; but that might have been a
disguise, like the mask and the patches of court-plaster.

"May I ask you one question?"

"No," promptly. There was something in his eyes that made her grow wary
of a sudden.

"Then I shan't ask it. I shall not ask you if you are married."

"And I shall not say one way or the other."

She smiled and he laughed quietly. He had put the question and she had
answered it.

Neither of them ate much of this elaborate dinner. A game like this
might easily dull the sharpest appetite. He studied her head, the curves
of her throat, the little gestures, the way her shoulders seemed to
narrow when she shrugged; and all these pictures he stored away for
future need. He would meet her again; a touch of prescience told him
this. When, where, did not matter.

A running conversation; a fencing match with words and phrases. Time
after time she touched him; but with all his skill he could not break
through her guard. Once or twice he thrust in a manner which was not in
accord with the rules.

"And that interesting dissertation on the American gentleman?" she said
icily, putting aside each thrust with a parry of this kind.

"That's the trouble with posing as a moralist; one must live up to the
precepts. Would you believe me if I told you that, at the age of
three-and-thirty, I am still heart-whole?"

She parried: "I trust you will not spoil that excellent record by making
love to me." She reached for the matches, touched off one, watched it
burn for a moment, extinguished it, and then deliberately drew a line
across the center of the table-cloth.

[Illustration: She deliberately drew a line across the centre of the
table-cloth]

"Now what might that represent?" he asked curiously.

"A line, Mr. Hillard. The moment you cross that line, that moment you
leave this house. On guard!"

"Come, that is not brave. You can retreat till your shoulders touch the
mat, but I must stand this side of the line, unable to reach you. And
you have the advantage of the mask besides. You are not a fair fencer."

"The odds should be in my favor. I am a woman. My wrist is not so strong
as yours."

"Physically, of course, I may pass the line; to reach the salt, for
instance. Will that be against the rules?"

"To a certain extent, no."

"You make it very hard. You have put temptation in my path."

"Bid Satan get behind thee."

"But supposing he should take it into his head to--shoulder me forward?"

"In that case, under the new rules, I should referee the matter."

"I wish I knew the color of your eyes. Behind those holes I see nothing
but points of fire, no color. Are they blue, brown, grey?"

"They are blue. But supposing I wear this mask because my face is
dreadfully scarred, and that I have some vanity?"

"Vanity, yes; but scars, never; at least never so deep as you yourself
can make. You do not wear that mask to cover defects, but out of mercy
to me."

And so the duel went on. Sometimes the heat of the mask almost
suffocated her, and she could hardly resist the desire to tear it from
her face. Yet, in spite of this discomfort, she was enjoying herself.
This adventure was as novel to her as it was to him. Once she rose and
approached the window, slyly raising the mask and breathing deeply of
the cold air which rushed in through the crevices. When she turned she
found that he, too, had risen. He was looking at the steins, one of
which he held in his hand. Moreover, he returned and set the stein down
beside his plate.

"Tell me, why do you do that?" There was an anxious note in her voice.

"I have an idea. But let us proceed with the dinner. This salad--"

"I am more interested in the idea." She pushed aside the salad and took
a sip of the ruby Burgundy. Had he discovered something?

"May I smoke?" he asked.

"By all means."

He lighted a cigarette and put the case near the line.

"Do you not enjoy a cigarette?"

"Sometimes," she answered. "But that idea--"

"Will you not have one?" He moved the case still nearer to the line.

She reached out a firm round white arm.

"One moment," he said; "let us understand each other thoroughly."

"What do you mean?" her arm poised in mid-air. "To touch a cigarette you
must cross the line to this side."

She withdrew her arm slowly.

"I shall not smoke. If I crossed the line I should establish a dangerous
precedent. A good stroke. Now, the idea. I must have that idea."

He blew the smoke toward the lamp; it sailed over the flaming wicks and
darted into the dark beyond.

"The mirror over the piano confused me. I had seen it somewhere before.
Then, there was that old copy of Botticelli. The frame was familiar, but
I could not place it. This stein, however!" He laughed; the laughter was
boyish, even triumphant.

"Well, that stein?" She was now leaning across the table, her fingers
tense on the cloth.

"I bought that stein two seasons ago. This is the Sandfords' place, and
you are the veiled lady who has been riding Mrs. Sandford's favorite
hunter in the park."

"And so?"

"I shall find out who you are presently."

"How?"

"That shall be my secret. Mutual friends, indeed! You will not have to
send me home blindfolded."

"That is precisely what I shall do, in a certain sense. My name?
Perhaps. But you will never know my face."

"Suppose I should determine to cross the line, despite your precepts?"

They stood up simultaneously. In a matter of this sort he was by far the
quicker. In an instant he had caught her by the wrist, at the same time
drawing her irresistibly round the table toward him. His grasp was not
rough, only firm. She ceased to pull against him.

"I must see your face. I shall never be at peace if I do not."

"Certainly you will never know any peace if you do. Be careful!"

His free hand stole toward the strings of her mask. She moved not. His
face was very close to hers now. If only she would struggle! Yes, he was
certain now that her eyes were blue. But they looked at him with a
menace which chilled his ardor. He dropped the hand from the mask and
released her wrist.

"No, I haven't the courage. If I take that mask from your face, it will
be the end. And I do not want this ever to end. If you will not let me
see your face of your own free will, so be it. I shall see it some day,
mark me. Fate does not cross two paths in this manner without a
purpose." He stepped back slowly. "You do not understand the lure of
that mask."

"Perhaps I do. I am beginning to admire your self-control, Mr. Hillard;
I am beginning to admire it very much. But I am tired now, and I must
ask you to go."

"Once more, will you let me see your face?"

"No. If, as you say, fate intends for us to meet again, you will see it.
But I have my doubts. So it is my will to pass out of your life as
completely as though I had never entered it; from one fog into another.
No, I am not a happy woman; I am not happy in my friendships. Listen to
me," and her voice grew low and sweet. "Let me appeal to your
imagination. This light adventure shall be a souvenir for your old age.
One night Romance stepped into your life and out of it. Think! There
will always be the same charm, the same mystery, the same enchantment.
Knowing nothing of me, there will follow no disillusions, no
disenchantments; I shall always be Cinderella, or the Sleeping Beauty,
or what your fancy wills. Do you understand me?"

He nodded.

"Nothing," she proceeded, "nothing lasts so long in the recollection as
a pleasant mystery. In other days, in other times.... Well, on my side I
shall recall this night pleasantly. Without knowing it, you have given
me a new foothold in life. I did not believe that there lived a single
man who could keep to the letter of his bargain. Presently you will
forget the chagrin. Good night! And do not lean out of any more
windows," she added lightly.

"You are right," he said reluctantly. "Something to dream over in my old
age. And certainly I shall dream of it; a flash of sunlight in the
shadow."

Then slowly he reached down toward her wine-glass. She understood his
purpose and essayed to stop him.

"Do not deny me this little thing," he said.

She let her hand fall. He took the glass, held it against the light to
see where her lips had touched it. Carefully he poured out the wine from
the opposite side and kissed the rim.

"I shall keep this glass. I must have some visible object to make sure
that this hasn't been a dream. Mrs. Sandford may send me the bill."

"You may kiss my hand, Mr. Hillard."

He bent quickly and kissed, not the hand, but the wrist where the marks
of his fingers still remained faintly. He squared himself, and gazed
long and steadfastly into her eyes. In that moment he seemed to her
positively handsome; and there was a flutter in her heart that she was
unable to define. On his part he realized the sooner he was gone the
better; there was a limit to his self-control.... He gained the street
somehow. There he stopped and turned. Did the curtain move? He wasn't
sure; but he raised his hat, settled it firmly on his head, and walked
rapidly away. He was rather proud of himself. He had conquered a hundred
temptations. And he confidently knew that it would be many a day before
she ceased to think of him. Was she single or married? Well, it mattered
not, one way or the other; he knew that long years ago this night had
been written and his fate summed up. Unhappy? There was more than one
mask. Once in his own room, however, the longing to see her face grew
terribly strong. He stood the glass on the mantel and stared at it. Why
must she go out of his life? What obstacle was there to stand between
them and a kindly friendship?

There was little sleep for him that night; and in the morning the first
thing he did was to pick up the wine-glass. It was all true. And then
his good resolutions melted and vanished. He must have one more word
with her, happen what might. So at ten o'clock he called a cab and drove
rapidly to the Sandford place. Snow had fallen during the night, and
many of the steps were still spotless white. Impossible! He leaned from
the cab and rubbed his eyes. Absolutely impossible! For, what did he
see? Wooden shutters over all the lower windows and the iron gates
closed before the doors! And not a footprint anywhere. This was
extraordinary. He jumped from the cab, ran up the steps, and rang the
bell, rang it ten times with minute intervals. And no one answered. Then
he heard a call from across the street. A man stood in one of the
area-ways.

"Nobody home!" he shouted. "Gone to Egypt."

"But there was some one here last night," Hillard shouted back.

"Last night? Guess you've got the wrong street and wrong house, young
man."

"But this is the Sandford place?"

"Nothing else."

"I was here last night."

"Dreaming. That house has been empty since November. I happen to be the
caretaker."

Hillard went back to his cab, dazed. No one there last night? Come,
come; there was a mistake somewhere. It was out of the question that he
had been in another house. He would soon find out whether or not he had
dined there the night before.

"A cable-office!" he cried to the cabby. "Hurry!"

Once there he telephoned down-town and secured Sandford's cable address.
Then he filled out a blank which cost him ten dollars. Late that night
at the club he received his reply. It was terse.

     You are crazy. House absolutely empty. SANDFORD.




CHAPTER VII

THE TOSS OF A COIN


Hillard made an inexcusably careless shot. It was under his hand to have
turned an even forty on his string. He grounded his cue and stood back
from the table. That was the way everything seemed to go; at tennis, at
squash, at fencing, at billiards, it was all the same. The moment
victory was within his grasp his interest waned. Only last night he had
lost his title as the best fencer in the club; disqualified in the
preliminaries, too, by a tyro who would never cease to brag about the
accident.

"I say, Jack, what's the matter with you, anyhow?" asked Merrihew, out
of patience. "A boy could have made that three-cushion, his hands tied
behind him."

"It was bad," Hillard agreed. "Perhaps I am not taking the interest in
the game that I formerly took."

"I should say not. You lost me fifty last night. Corlis has no more
right to cross foils with you than I have; and yet he goes in for the
finals, while you are out of it. Where's your eye? Where's your grip?"

Hillard chalked his cue silently.

"And when I make a proposition," pursued Merrihew, "to ride to the
Catskills and back--something you would have jumped at a year ago--you
shake your head. Think of it! Through unbroken roads, nights at
farm-houses, old feather beds, ice in the wash-basin, liver and bacon
for breakfast, and off again! Snow or rain! By George, you had a bully
time last year; you swore it was the best trip we ever took on the
horses. Remember how we came back to town, hungry and hardy as Arctic
explorers? Come on; everything is dull down-town. Where's your spirit of
adventure?"

"I'm sure I don't know where it is. Shall we finish the game?"

"Not if you're going to throw it like this," declared Merrihew. He was
proud of his friend's prowess in games of skill and strength, and he was
wroth to see him lose all interest unaccountably.

"Ten and a string against your half a string," said Hillard, studying
the score. "I'll bet a bottle that I beat you."

"Done!" said Merrihew. Being on his mettle, he made a clean score of
twenty, five to go. "I can see you paying for that check, Jack."

But the odds tingled Hillard's blood. He settled down to a brilliant
play and turned sixty-one in beautiful form. There were several shots
which caused Merrihew to gasp.

"Well, it's worth the price of the bottle. If only you had had that eye
last night! We'll have the bottle in the alcove at the head of the
stairs. I want to talk to you."

So the two passed up-stairs to the secluded alcove, and the bottle
shortly followed. Merrihew filled the glasses with the air of one who
would like to pass the remainder of his days doing the same thing. Not
that he was overfond; but each bottle temporarily weeded out that crop
of imperishable debts, that Molochian thousand, that Atalanta whose
speed he could not overtake, having no golden apples. To him the world
grew roseate and kindly, viewed through the press of the sparkling
grape, and invariably he saw fortune beckoning to the card-tables.

"Now, then, Jack, I've got you where I want you. Who is she?"

"On my word, I don't know," answered Hillard, stirring restlessly.

"Then there is a woman!" cried Merrihew, astonished at his perspicacity.
"I knew it. Nothing else would so demoralize your nerve. Shall we drink
a health to her?"

Hillard raised his glass and touched that of his comrade. For the good
of his soul and the peace of his mind, he then and there determined to
tell Merrihew the whole adventure, without a single reservation.

"To the Lady in the Fog!" he said.

"Fog?" blankly.

"Well, the Lady in the Mask."

"Fog, mask? Two of them?"

"No, only one. Once I met her in the fog, and then I met her in the
mask."

"I'll drink to her; but I'm hanged if I don't believe you're codding
me," said Merrihew disappointedly. "This is New York."

"I know it; and yet sometimes I doubt it. Here's to the lady."

They drank. Hillard set down his glass; Merrihew refilled his.

"The whole story, Jack, details and all; no half-portions."

Hillard told the yarn simply, omitting nothing essential. He even added
that for three weeks he had been the author of the personal inquiry as
to the whereabouts of one Madame Angot. More than that, he was the
guilty man who had set the club by the ears.

"I don't know, Dan, but this has taken so strong a hold on me that I
shan't forget it soon. Imagine it yourself. Oh, but she could sing! I am
a man not to be held in the leash of an adventure like this; but she
held me. How? By the hope that one day I might see her face, with no
veil of mystery to hold her off at arm's length."

Merrihew was greatly excited. He was for ordering a second bottle, but
Hillard stayed him.

"By George! And you are sure that it was at the Sandfords'?"

"I am positive. But there is a puzzle that I have failed to solve:
Sandford's cable and the caretaker's declaration. I know that I was in
that house. I ran across a stein which I had given Sandford. I have
inquired of the police; they had been requested to watch the house in
the absence of the owner. The patrolman says that he has seen no light
in the house since the family sailed for Africa. I sleep soundly; never
have nightmares. And yet, but for her letters and the fact that Giovanni
heard her sing under my window, I might almost believe I've been
dreaming. It is no dream; but it begins to look as if I were the victim
of some fine hoax."

"And Sandford mixed up in it," supplemented Merrihew.

"Sandford and I are good friends, but we are not so intimate that he'd
take the pains to work out a hoax of this magnitude. It did not
originate with him, and his wife is altogether out of the picture. If I
had only seen her face, I might have forgotten all about her in a few
days. But the mask, the charm, the mystery! I can't get her out of my
thoughts; I am irrational in all I do; an absolute failure in the
office."

"It is more than a hoax, in my opinion. Wait till Sandford returns and
finds his silver gone!"

Hillard started.

"And his gold-plate," continued Merrihew, pleased with the idea. "My
boy, that's what it is; the best dodge I ever heard of. But how did they
get into the house, she and her maid? It will make a good story for the
Sunday papers. You won't be in it, unless she ropes you in as an
accomplice. That would be rich!"

"I'm a romantic ass!" Hillard sighed. Leddy Lightfinger! If this turned
out to be the case, he would never trust a human being again; he would
take to breeding dogs.

"Let's take that ride on the horses," Merrihew urged. "That'll clear
your brain of this sentimental fog."

"No!" Hillard struck his hands together. "I've a better idea than that,
and it has just come to me. I shall go to Italy in March, and you, my
boy, shall go with me."

"Impossible! Why, I'm all but broke." Merrihew shook his head decidedly.

"I'll take you as a companion. I'm a sick man, Dan. I'm likely to jump
overboard if some one isn't watching me every minute."

"I'd like to go, Jack; Heaven and earth, but I should! But I can't
possibly go to Italy with a letter of credit no more than twenty-five
hundred, and that's all there is in the exchequer at present."

"Between such friends as we are--"

"That racket won't work. I could not take a moment's peace if I did not
feel independent. Supposing I wanted to come home and you didn't, or you
did and I didn't? No, Jack; nothing to it that way." And Merrihew was
right.

"But I'm not going to give it to you!" Hillard protested. He was
determined to break down Merrihew's objections if it took all night. "I
am going to lend it to you."

"And could I ever pay you back if I accepted the loan?" humorously.
"You'll have to invent some other scheme."

"There's Monte Carlo; you might pull down a tidy sum," said the tempter.

"That's the way, you beggar; hit me on the soft side." But Merrihew was
still obdurate. To go to Europe was out of the question.

"Now listen to reason, Dan. If you wait for the opportunity to go to
Europe, you'll wait in vain. You must make the opportunity. One must
have youth to enjoy Italy thoroughly. The desire to go becomes less and
less as one grows older. Besides, it completes every man's education; it
broadens his charity and smooths down the rough edges of his conceit.
I'll put the proposition in a way you can't possibly get round. You've
simply got to go. You will always have that thousand, so don't worry
about that. You have twenty-five hundred on hand, you say. With that you
can see Italy like a prince for three months. I know the tongue and the
country; I know what you would want to see, what to avoid, where to
stop."

"What's the proposition?" Merrihew drained the bottle.

"This: I'll agree to take not a penny more than twenty-five hundred
myself. We'll go on equal terms. Why," confidently, "besides living like
a prince, you'll have four hundred to throw away at roulette. Boy, you
have never seen Italy; therefore you do not know what beauty is. When we
eventually land at Bellaggio, on Lake Como, and I take your lily-white
hand in mine and lead you up to the terrace of Villa Serbelloni, and
order tea, then you will realize that you have only begun to live.
Gardens, towering Alps, the green Lecco on one side and the green Como
on the other; and Swiss champagne at a dollar-forty the quart! Eh?"

Merrihew produced his black cigar. This matter needed some deep
reflection, and could not be determined offhand. The ash turned white on
the end of the cigar before he replied.

"If you weren't Irish, you'd just naturally be Dago," he said with a
laugh. "But it isn't fair to shoot me up this way, with flowery
speeches."

"And then, besides all these things," Hillard added, "there's Kitty
Killigrew, singing her heart out to a people who can't understand a word
she's singing. Kitty Killigrew!"

"Can it be done for twenty-five hundred?"

"He's melting!" murmured Hillard jubilantly. "He's melting!"

"For a small amount I'd punch your head!" Merrihew chewed his cigar with
subdued fierceness. He knew very well that he was destined to go to
Europe. Kitty Killigrew, who had promised to mail the route they were to
play, and hadn't!

"It is written, Dan, that you shall go with me. Think of running into
the theater and seeing Kitty! I begin to like the music of that name."

"We'll settle this argument right here and now." Merrihew drew out a
coin. "Call it!" he cried recklessly.

"Heads!"

The coin flickered in the light, fell, and proved that all money is
perverse, by rolling under the davenport upon which they were sitting.
An amusing hunt followed. They ran their hands over the floor, turned
the rug, pulled out the davenport and looked behind, burnt innumerable
matches, and finally rang for the attendant. The situation was
explained, and he procured a candle. He was ultimately successful.

"Here it is, sir."

"Don't touch it!" warned Hillard.

"What is it, head or tail?" asked Merrihew weakly.

"Heads, sir," said the attendant, picking up the coin and offering it to
the owner.

"Keep it," said Merrihew generously, even sadly. He never got up a game
of chance that he did not get the worst of it. And now, Italy! All that
way from home! "Boy, bring up a bottle of '96."

"Dan!"

"You be still," said Merrihew savagely. "You've roped me in nicely, and
I'm game to go; but I'll have that bottle if I have to drink it all
alone."

But he did not drink it all alone. Hillard was too wise to permit that.
Merrihew might wish to add a few hundred to his letter of credit, via
the card-room.

"And the Lady in the Mask?" asked Merrihew, as they at length stood up,
preparatory to going down-stairs.

"I must relegate her to the fog she came out of. But it would be a
frightful thing if--if--" He hesitated to form the words.

But Merrihew had no such scruple. "If the silver and plate were missing
when the Sandfords return?"

"Oh, bosh! It's all some joke, and I'm the butt of it. She was in that
house by the same authority she rode the horse."

"A woman of that sort would have no difficulty in hoodwinking the
stablemen," declared Merrihew, certain that he had solved the riddle.

"And so you add forgery? Not a shred of my romance left!" Hillard spoke
jestingly, but like a man who covers up a sudden twinge of pain.

"We'll know all about it in the fall. And ten to one, my theory will be
the correct one."

"That's better. I have some hope now. You never won a bet in all your
life."

"I know it; but this may be the one time. By the way, received a postal
from Kitty this morning. From Gibraltar. Fine trip. Visited the
gun-galleries and the antique furniture shops. Says no sign of prima
donna as yet, but believes her to be on board. O'Mally's on the
water-wagon. But Kitty aggravates me."

"What has she done now--refused you by Marconigraph?"

"No; but she promised me her address."

"Address her care Cook's, Florence, Rome, Venice. It's the popular
mail-box of Europe; and if she has given them the address, they will
forward."

"That helps considerably. I'm glad there's one Cook which can be relied
on."

"In the morning I'll arrange for passage. We'll try the Celtic."

"I'll leave the business end of the trip to you."

"The first Saturday in March, then, if we can get booking. That will be
in less than two weeks."

"I'm game. Shall I pack up my riding-breeches?"

"Prepare for everything except automobiles."

"Bah! I wouldn't take one as a gift."

"You couldn't afford to, if what I hear about them is true. Though you
might be able to sell the gift and wipe out that thousand."

"Hang the thousand! I had almost forgotten it again."

In the lobby of the club, as they were about to enter the coat-room,
Hillard ran into one of several gentlemen issuing.

"Pardon me," he said, stepping aside.

"_Non un importa!_" said the stranger with a graceful wave of the hands.

Hillard looked quickly into the gentleman's face. "I am clumsy," he said
in Italian.

Then the other stared at him, and smiled. For a moment there was a brief
tableau, in which each took the other's measure and noted the color of
the eyes. The man was an exceedingly handsome Italian, for all that a
scar ran from his check to his chin. It was all over in a moment; and
Hillard and Merrihew proceeded to the street.

"Handsome duffer," was Merrihew's comment. "But you never can tell a man
by his looks. Gaze on me, for instance. I'm a good example of handsome
is as handsome does." He was growing merry.

"Go home!" Hillard slapped him jovially on the shoulder.

"Home? Ah, yes! But shall I have a home to go to when I get back? You
have roped me in nicely. My poor little twenty-five hundred! But Swiss
champagne at a dollar-forty the quart! Well, every cloud has its lining.
Say, Jack, how much brighter the world looks after a magnum! And a funny
story's twice as funny. Good night. As for the Lady in the Fog, take the
cash and let the credit go. That's my motto."

As Hillard never received any answer to his personal, he discontinued
it. Truly, she had returned to the fog out of which she had come. But it
was no less difficult for him to take up the daily affairs again;
everything was so terribly prosaic now; the zest was gone from work and
play. Italy was the last resort; and the business of giving Merrihew a
personally conducted tour would occupy his mind. Always he was asking:
Who was she? What mystery veiled her? Whither had she gone? We never can
conjure up a complete likeness. Sometimes it is the eyes, again the
mouth and chin, or the turn of the throat; there is never any ensemble
of features and adornments. And as for Hillard, he really had nothing
definite to recall, unless it was the striking color of her hair or the
mellow smoothness of her voice. And could he really remember these? He
often wished that she had sung under any window but his.

Giovanni was delighted when he heard the news. He would go, too, and act
as valet to the signore and his friend till they put out for Rome. Then,
of course, he would be obliged to leave them. Occasionally Hillard would
reason with him regarding his deadly projects. But when a Latin declares
that he has seen through blood, persuasions, arguments, entreaties,
threats do not prevail. He comforted himself with the opinion, however,
that Giovanni's hunt would come to no successful end.

"You will surely fall into the hands of the police."

"What God wills comes true. But by this time they will have forgotten
me."

"But you have not forgotten."

"_Padre mio_, that is different. One obeys the civil law from habit.
Between me and the _carabinieri_ there is nothing personal. Thus it is
easy for them to forget. Still, I shall not announce my approach, that I
am Giovanni l'Aguello, returned for arrest. I shall take good care to
keep out of their way."

"The eagle; that is a good name for you."

"And once I was as tame as a dove."

"But your man might be dead."

"He is not dead. If he were, something would tell me."

"It is a bad business, and I wish you no luck."

Giovanni smiled easily. Wishes seldom interfere with any one.

"I will double your wages," said Hillard, "if you will go where I go and
return with me when I come back to America."

A deprecating movement. "Money? It is nothing. I am rich, after my
kind."

"Are you still in the Church?"

"I confess regularly once a week. Oh, I am a good Catholic."

"Take yourself off. I am displeased with you."

The few days before sailing found Merrihew in a flutter of intense
excitement. He carried his letter of credit about in order to convince
himself during the day that he was really and truly going to Italy. He
forswore the bottle and the illumined royalty of the card-deck, and
spent his evenings "studying up" the lay of the land. To be sure, there
was one grand dinner the night before they sailed. Suppose, Merrihew
advanced, for the sake of argument, suppose the ship went down or he
never came back, or he was ill all the way over? There would be one good
dinner to remember, anyhow.

It was a drizzling, foggy morning when they drove down to the boat.
There are seldom bright sailing days in the forepart of March. But the
atmospheric effects made no impression on the volatile Merrihew. It was
all very interesting to him. And he had an eye for all things, from the
baskets of fruit and flowers, messengers with late orders from the
stores, repeated farewells, to the squalling babies in the steerage.
Even in the impudent shrieking tugboats he found a measure of delight;
and the blur on the water was inviting.

At four o'clock they were on the high seas, heading for the Azores.
Hillard was dreaming and Merrihew was studiously employed over a booklet
on _How to Speak Italian in One Day_. There was a moderate sea on.

By and by Giovanni, who had spent most of the time arranging the luggage
in the adjoining staterooms, came up on deck. He had two packets of
letters and telegrams. One he gave to Merrihew and the other to his
master.

"I forgot to give the signore his mail at breakfast. The boat-mail has
just been distributed." He then went forward.

Merrihew was greatly pleased with his packet. There were humorous
letters and cheery telegrams, containing all sorts of advice in case of
seasickness, how to slip cigars through the customs, where to get the
best post-cards, and also the worst.

Hillard found among his a bulky envelope post-marked Naples. After he
opened it he lay back in his chair and contemplated the ruffled horizon.
Naples! He sat up. It had been addressed to the house and the address
typewritten.

"Dan?"

"What is it?"

"Look at this!"

"Good Lord!" Dan gasped, his feet coming down to the deck.

For Hillard was holding up for his inspection a crumpled black silk
mask.




CHAPTER VIII

WHAT MERRIHEW FOUND


The great ship had passed the Isle of Ischia, and now the Bay of Naples
unfolded all its variant beauties. Hillard had seen them many times
before, yet they are a joy eternal, a changing joy of which neither the
eye nor the mind ever grows weary. Both he and Merrihew were foremost in
the press against the forward rail. To the latter's impressionable mind
it was like a dream. In fancy he could see the Roman galleys, the
fighting triremes, the canopied pleasure-craft, just as they were two
thousand years ago. Yonder, the temples and baths of Nero of the Golden
House; thither, the palaces of the grim Tiberius; beyond, Pompeii, with
Glaucus, lone, and Nydia, the blind girl. The dream-picture faded and
the reality was no less fascinating: the white sails of the fishermen
winging across the sapphire waters, leaving ribboned pathways behind
that crossed and recrossed like a chart of the stars; proud white
pleasure-yachts, great vessels from all ports in the world; and an
occasional battle-ship, drab and stealthy. And the hundred pink and
white villages, the jade and amethyst of the near and far islands, the
smiling terraces above the city, the ruined temples, the grim giant
ash-heap of Vesuvius!

"That is it," said Merrihew, whose flights of rhetoric were most
simplified.

"_Vedi Napoli e poi mori!_" replied Hillard.

"Hold on," exclaimed Merrihew. "Pass it out slowly. What's that mean?"

"See Naples and die."

"I prefer to see it and live. But I am kind of disappointed in Vesuvius.
It's not the terrible old Moloch of my geographies that gobbled up
cities and peoples. And nobody seems to be afraid of it," with a gesture
toward the villages nestling with the utmost confidence at the circling
base. "Not a bit of smoke anywhere."

"No, my boy, don't speak slightingly of old Vesuvius. It is one of the
great mysteries of the world. To-morrow that mountain may swallow up the
whole bay, or it may never wake up again. Respect it; I do. When I
recall Herculaneum and Pompeii--"

"Two thousand years ago; that's different. I'm never satisfied, I know,
but I should like to see it blow its head off while I'm here."

"Not I! As I grow older I like comfort and security more and more. See
that village on the cliffs toward the south? That's Sorrento, where I
was born. The eruption of '72 happened while I was there, but I was too
young to take any particular notice. Sh! Look at Giovanni."

Merrihew looked at the old Roman. Tears were running down his cheeks,
and his gaze strove to pierce the distance to the far-off Sabine Hills.
Italy! Yonder his heart and soul had taken root; his native land, his
native land, and condemned to live in exile from it! Hillard leaned over
and touched him on the arm, and he started.

"Take care, Giovanni."

"Pardon! I am weak this day, but to-morrow I shall be strong. Seven
years! Have you not longed for it yourself? Has not your heart gone out
many times across the seas to those cliffs?" pointing to Sorrento.

"Many times, Giovanni. But remember and control yourself. Presently the
_carabinieri_ will come on board. You will see that all our luggage goes
promptly to the Bristol, once we are through the customs."

"Trust me, signore."

They landed at the custom-house at two in the afternoon, and passed
without any difficulty. Naples is the easiest port in the world, if you
are not a native and you chance to be an uncommercial traveler who is
willing to purchase salt and tobacco of the State. The Italian tobacco
is generally bad, and formerly one had to smoke it or go without; but
now the best of imported cigars may be found in all the large cities,
cheaper in some respects than those in America, and not a whit inferior,
since there is no middleman's profit, buying, as one does, direct from
the State. The hotels, however, sell the same brands at an outrageous
advance; the proprietor must have his commission, the concierge, the
head-waiter, the waiters, the porters, and the chef, for this slight
favor to the guest. Commission! It means something in sunny Italy. All
this Hillard explained to Merrihew as they were awaiting the
examination. Merrihew, holding grimly on to his hand-luggage, stood
waiting for Hillard at the iron gates fronting the railroad. Suddenly a
brilliantly uniformed man rushed up to him, bowed, and insisted on
taking the luggage. Merrihew protested feebly.

"But you are Meestaire Merrihoo, the friend of Meestaire Hil_lar_?"

"Yes."

"It is all right, then." The brilliant uniform prevailed, and Merrihew
surrendered the luggage, marveling. Hillard seemed to know every one
over here.

"Beautiful weather," said the uniform, as they passed through the gates.

"Fine," said Merrihew. From the corner of his eye he inspected the man
at his side. Certainly he could be no less than a captain in the navy,
with those epaulets and sleeve-bands.

"This is your first trip to Italy?"

"Yes. You people are very courteous here."

"Oh, we make that a part of our business."

A hundred cabmen yelled and shouted; but at a sign from Merrihew's new
acquaintance they subsided or turned their attention elsewhere. This
sign of respect made a still deeper impression on Merrihew.

"I'll bet a dollar he's an admiral!" he thought.

At length they came to an omnibus. The admiral beckoned to Merrihew to
step in. The luggage was thrown on top.

"I am very grateful to you," said Merrihew, offering his hand.

The admiral shook it somewhat doubtfully, tipped his cap, and went
hurriedly back to the _dogana_, or custom-house.

Shortly after Hillard appeared.

"We shan't go up in the omnibus," he said. "We'll take a carriage."

Merrihew looked around in vain for his distinguished acquaintance.

"What did you give the porter?" Hillard asked as they drove off.

"Porter? I didn't see any porter."

"Why, the chap who took your luggage from the customs."

"Good Lord! was that the porter? Why, I thought he was a personal friend
of yours and an admiral in the Italian navy. I shook hands with him!"

Hillard shouted with laughter.

What a noisy, smelly, picturesque city it was! The cries of the hawkers,
the importunities of the guides, the venders and cabmen, the whining
beggars; the clatter of horses and carriages and carts; strolling
singers, goats with tinkling bells, the barking of outcast dogs, and the
brawling and bawling of children, hundreds upon hundreds of children!
Merrihew grew dizzy trying to absorb the whole canvas at once. How the
sturdy little campagna ponies ran up and down the narrow winding
streets! Crack-crack! went the driver's lash. It possessed a language
all its own. It called, it warned at the turning of the corners, it
greeted friends, it hurled curses at rivals. Crack-crack! till
Merrihew's ears ached. It was all very crowded and noisy till they
reached the upper terrace of the Corso Vittorio; then the sounds became
murmurous and pleasing.

Their rooms were pleasantly situated, looking out upon the sparkling
bay. Giovanni began at once to unpack the trunks, happy enough to have
something to occupy him till after dark, when he determined to venture
forth. The dreaded _carabinieri_ had paid him not the slightest
attention; so far he was as safe as though he were in New York.

It was yet so early in the day that the two young men sallied forth in
quest of light adventure. Besides, Merrihew was very eager to find some
Roman and Florence newspapers. The American Comic Opera Company was
somewhere north. They found stationed outside the hotel a rosy-cheeked
cabby who answered to the name of Tomasso, or Tomass', as the
Neapolitans generally drop the finals. He carried a bright red lap-robe
and blanket, spoke a little English, and was very proud of the
accomplishment. He was rather disappointed, however, when Hillard
bargained with him in his own tongue. He saw at once that there would be
no imposing on the young _Americano_. The two harangued for a while, on
general principles. Twice words rose so high that Merrihew thought they
were about to come to blows. Tomass' shook his fingers under Hillard's
nose and Hillard returned the compliment. Finally Tomass' compromised on
one-lira-fifty per hour, with fifty centesimi _pourboire_. Crack-crack!
Down the hill they went, as if a thousand devils were after them.

"By George!" gasped Merrihew, clutching his seat; "the fool will break
our necks!"

"They are always like this," laughed Hillard. "Slowly, slowly!" he
called.

Tomass' grinned and cracked his whip. He did not understand the word
slowly in his own tongue or in any other; at least, not till he reached
the shops. It was business to go slowly there. A dozen times, on the Via
Roma, Merrihew yelled that they would lose a wheel. But Tomass' knew the
game. A man on foot could not have eluded collisions more skilfully.
Merrihew never saw such driving. Nor had he ever seen such shops. Coral,
coral, wherever the eye roamed. Where did they get it all and to whom
did they sell it? Necklaces, tiaras, rings, brooches, carved and
uncarved; were there women enough in the world to buy these things?

"If I had a wife..." he began.

"Well?"

"I'd feel devilish sorry for her husband at this moment."

"But isn't the color great?" said Hillard. It was good to be in Naples
again.

Indeed, on a sunny afternoon, the traveler will find no other street
offering such a kaleidoscope of luxuriant colors as the Via Roma of
Naples. Behold the greens, the flowers, the cheeses, the shining fish,
the bakestuffs, the silver- and goldsmiths, the milliners, the
curio-dens! And the people! Dark-eyed beauties on foot or driving,
handsome bearded men, monks, friars, priests, an archbishop in his
splendid carriage, a duke driving tandem, nuns, and children. And
uniforms as thick as poppies in a wheat-field. Officers rode past in
their light blue capes, their gold and scarlet braids and polished
scabbards; the foot-soldiers with their flowing green cock-feathers,
policemen with their short swords, the tall and dignified _carabinieri_
(always in pairs) with their cocked hats and crimson pompons towering
above the sea of hats. It seemed to Merrihew that a rainbow had been
captured and trained accordingly.

"I never saw so many kids," he observed; "so many dirty ones," he added.
"Herod would have had his work cut out for him here. Now, where can we
get some newspapers? I must know where she is."

"Presently," said Hillard. "The Piazza dei Martin," he directed Tomass'.
Then he turned to Merrihew solemnly. "My boy, if you are to travel with
me, beware of the Tauchnitz edition."

"What's that?"

"It's good reading in paper-covers. It is easier to sit in the hotel all
day and read Tauchnitz than it is to tramp through churches and
galleries and museums."

"No Tauchnitz; I promise." And Merrihew was an inveterate novel reader.

At the book-shop in the Piazza they found the Rome and Florence papers.
Hillard went through them thoroughly, but nowhere did he see anything
relative to the doings of the American Comic Opera Company.

"Not a line, Dan."

"But there must be something in the Florence paper. They should be
playing there yet."

"Nothing; these papers are two weeks old."

Merrihew stared blankly at the sheet. "I should like to know what it
means."

"We will write to the consulate in Rome. If there has been any trouble
he will certainly notify us. I'll write to-night. Now, here's Cook's
next door. We'll ask if there is any mail for Kitty Killigrew."

But there wasn't, nor had there been; and the name was not on the
forwarding books.

"Looks as if your Kitty were the needle in the haystack."

"Hang the luck!" Merrihew jammed his hands into his pockets and sulked
with the world.

"It is evident that Kitty will not have you."

"Cut it!" savagely. Pictures and churches and museums were all well
enough, but Merrihew wanted Kitty Killigrew above all the treasures of
earth. It was no longer a passing fancy; he was downright in love.

When they turned down to the Via Caracciolo, with the full sweep of the
magnificent bay at their feet, Merrihew's disappointment softened
somewhat. It was the fashionable hour. The band was playing near-by in
the Villa Nazionale. Americans were everywhere. Occasionally a stray
princess or countess flashed by, inert and listless against the
cushions, and invariably over-dressed. And when men accompanied them,
the men (if they were husbands) lolled back, even more listless. And
beggars of all sorts and descriptions besieged the "very great grand
rich Americans." To the Neapolitan all Americans are rich; they are the
only _forestieri_ who are always ready to throw money about, regardless
of results. The Englishman, now, when the _poveretto_ puts out his
unlovely hand, looks calmly over his head and drives on. The German (and
in the spring there are more Germans in Italy than Italians!) is deep in
his Koran, generally, his Karl Baedeker, or too thrifty to notice. It is
to the American, then, that the beggar looks for his daily macaroni.

They were nearly a week in Naples. They saw the galleries, the museums
and churches; they saw underground Naples; they made the weary and
useless ascent of Vesuvius; and Merrihew added a new smell to his
collection every hour. Pompeii by moonlight, however, was worth a
thousand ordinary dreams; and Merrihew, who had abundant imagination,
but no art with which to express it--happily or unhappily--saw Lytton's
story unfold in all its romantic splendor. In the dark corners he saw
Glaucus, and Sallust, and Arbaces; he could hear the light step of the
luxurious Julia, and the tramp of the gladiators; he could hear Ione's
voice in song and the low whisper of Nydia with her roses. "To the
lions! Glaucus to the lions!" It would have been perfect had Vesuvius
blown off the top of its head at that moment.

They lingered at Amalfi three days, and dreamed away the hours under the
white pergola. Merrihew was loath to leave; but Hillard was for going on
to Sorrento, for which his heart was always longing.

A spring rain fell as they took the incline, and it followed them over
the mountains and down into Sorrento. The ruddy oranges hung in clusters
over the old walls which lined both sides of the road, walls so old that
history stops before them doubtfully. And the perfume of the sweet rain
mingling with that of the fruit was like nothing Merrihew had ever
sensed before. They finally drew up in the courtyard of the Hotel de la
Sirena, and the long ride was at an end. The little garden was white and
pink with roses and camellias, and the tubbed mandarins were heavy with
fruit.

"And this is March!" said Merrihew, his thought traveling back to his
own bleak country, where winter is so long and summer is so short.

Their rooms were on the northeast corner, on the first floor; and from
the windows they could look down upon the _marina piccola_ and the
tideless sea, a sheer hundred and fifty feet below. Everybody welcomed
the Signore Hillard; the hotel was his, and everything and everybody in
it. Fire? It was already burning in the grate; orange wood, too, the
smoke of which leaves no strong acidulous odor on the air. The Signore
Hillard had only to speak, he had only to express a wish; they would
scour the village to gratify it. Hillard accepted all these attentions
as a matter of course, as a duke or a prince might have accepted them.

"By George!" whispered Merrihew; "they treat you like a prince here."

Later, when they were alone, Hillard began to explain.

"They remember my father; he used to live like a prince in Sorrento.
Every time I come here I do the best I can to keep the luster to his
name. To-morrow I shall point out to you the villa in which I was born.
A Russian princess owns it now. You will know the place by the pet
monkey which is always clambering about the balconies near the porter's
lodge. More than that, if the princess is not on the Riviera, I'll take
you there to tea some afternoon."

"A real live princess!" said Merrihew. "Is she beautiful?"

"Once upon a time," returned Hillard, laughing. "And, now, what do you
say to a game of penuchle till dinner, a penny a point?"

Merrihew found two decks of cards, arranged them, and the game began. It
was all very cheerful, the fire in the grate, the rain on the
casement-windows, the blur on the bay, and the fragrance of two
well-filled pipes.

There is very little to do in Sorrento at night; no theaters, no bands,
no well-lighted cafes, nothing save wandering companies who dance the
tarantella in the lobbies of the hotels, the men clumsy in their native
costumes and the girls with as much grace and figure as so many heifers.
It is only in Sicily that the Latin has learned to dance. But the
tarantella is a novelty to the sight-seeing tourist, who believes he
must see everything in order to be an authority when he gets back home.

Giovanni did not return till late that night, and on the morrow Hillard
questioned him.

"I have been to see a cousin," said Giovanni, "who lives on the way to
El Deserta."

"Ah! So you have a cousin here?"

"Yes, signore."

How old he looked, poor devil! Hillard had not taken particular notice
of him during the past week's excursions. Giovanni had aged ten years
since they landed.

"And was this cousin glad to see you? And is he to be trusted?"

"Both, signore. He had some news. She is--dancer in one of the Paris
music-cafes."

Hillard kindled his pipe thoughtfully. And patiently Giovanni waited,
knowing that shortly his master would offer some suggestion.

"Would you like me to give you the necessary money to go to Paris and
bring her back to the Sabine Hills?" he asked softly.

"I shall go to Paris, signore--after."

"You will never find him."

"Who can say?"

"What is his name?" Hillard had never till this moment asked this
question.

"I know it; that is sufficient. He is high, signore, very high; yet I
shall reach him. If I told you his name--"

"There would be the possibility of my warning him."

"That is why I hesitate."

"You are a Catholic, Giovanni."

Giovanni signified that he was.

"Does not the God of all Catholics, of all Christians, in fact, does He
not say that vengeance is His and that He will repay?"

"But there are so many of us, signore, so many of us small and of slight
importance, that, likely enough, God with all His larger cares has not
the time to remember us. What may happen to him in the hereafter does
not concern me; for he will certainly be in the purgatory of the rich
and I in the purgatory of the poor. It must be now, now!"

"Go your own way," said Hillard, dismissing him; "I shall never urge you
again."

Giovanni gone, Hillard leaned against the casement. The sun was bright
this morning and the air was clear. He could see Naples distinctly.
Below, the fishermen and their wives, their bare feet plowing in the wet
sands, were drawing in the nets, swaying their bodies gracefully.
Presently the men in the boat landed the catch, and the net sparkled
with living silver. So long as Giovanni was with him, he would be
morally responsible for his actions. He would really be glad when the
grim old Roman took himself off on his impossible quest.

How the sight of this beach recalled his boyhood! How many times had he
and his brilliant mother wandered over these sands, picking up the
many-colored stones, or baiting a young star-fish, or searching the
caverns of the piratical Saracens that honeycombed the clifts, or yet,
again, taking a hand at the nets! Sometimes he grew very lonely; for
without a woman, either of one's blood or of one's choice, life holds
little. Ah, that woman in the mask, that chimera of a night, that fancy
of an hour!

And then Merrihew burst in upon him, wildly excited, and flourished the
hotel register.

"Look at this!" he cried breathlessly. He flung the book on the table
and pointed with shaking finger.

Hillard came forward, and this is what he saw:

      Thomas O'Mally
      James Smith
      Arthur Worth
      La Signorina Capricciosa
      Kitty Killigrew
    Am. Comic Opera Co., N.Y.

"Kitty has been here!"

"Perfectly true. But I wonder."

"Wonder about what?" asked Merrihew.

"Who La Signorina Capricciosa is. Whimsical indeed. She must be the
mysterious prima donna."

He studied the easy-flowing hand, and ran his fingers through his hair
thoughtfully. Then he frowned.

"What is it?" asked Merrihew curiously.

"Nothing; only I am wondering where I have seen that handwriting
before."




CHAPTER IX

MRS. SANDFORD WINKS


A week in Sorrento, during which Merrihew saw all the beautiful villas,
took tea with the Russian princess, made a martyr of himself trying to
acquire a taste for the sour astringent wines of the country, and bought
inlaid-wood paper-cutters and silk socks and neckties and hat-bands,
enough, in truth, to last him for several generations; another week in
Capri, where, at the Zum Kater Hidigeigei, he exchanged compliments with
the green parrot, drank good beer, played _batseka_ (a game of
billiards) with the exiles (for Capri has as many as Cairo!) and beat
them out of sundry lire, toiled up to the ledge where the playful
Tiberius (see guide-books) tipped over his whilom favorites, bought a
marine daub; and then back to Naples and the friendly smells. His
constant enthusiasm and refreshing observations were a tonic to Hillard.

At the hotel in Naples they found a batch of mail. There was a letter
which held particular interest to Merrihew. It was from the consul at
Rome, a reply to Hillard's inquiries regarding the American Comic Opera
Company.

"We'll now find out where your charming Kitty is," Hillard said,
breaking the seal.

But they didn't. On the contrary, the writer hadn't the slightest idea
where the play-actors were or had gone. They had opened a two weeks'
engagement at the Teatro Quirino. There had been a good house on the
opening night; the remainder of the week did not show the sale of a
hundred tickets. It was a fallacy that traveling Americans had any
desire to witness American productions in Italy. So, then, the managers
of the theater had abruptly canceled the engagement. The American
manager had shown neither foresight nor common sense. He had, in the
first place, come with his own scenery and costumes, upon which he had
to pay large duties, and would have to pay further duties each time he
entered a large city. His backer withdrew his support; and the
percentage demanded by the managers in Florence, Genoa, Milan and Venice
was so exorbitant (although they had agreed to a moderate term in the
beginning) that it would have been nothing short of foolhardiness to try
to fill the bookings. The singing of the prima donna, however, had
created a highly favorable impression among the critics; but she was
unknown, and to be unknown was next to positive failure, financially.
This information, the writer explained, had been obtained by personal
investigation. The costumes and scenery had been confiscated; and the
manager and his backer had sailed for America, leaving the members of
the company to get back the best way they could. As none of the players
had come to the consulate for assistance, their whereabouts were
unknown. The writer also advised Mr. Hillard not to put his money in any
like adventure. Italy was strongly against any foreign invasion, aside
from the American trolley-car.

"That's hard luck," growled Merrihew, who saw his hopes go down the
horizon.

"But it makes me out a pretty good prophet," was Hillard's rejoinder.
"The Angel's money gave out. Too many obstacles. To conquer a people and
a government by light opera--it can't be done here. And so the American
Comic Opera Company at the present moment is vegetating in some little
_pensione_, waiting for money from home."

Merrihew gnawed the end of his cane. All his pleasant dreams had burst
like soap-bubbles. Had they not always done so? There would be no jaunts
with Kitty, no pleasant little excursions, no little suppers after the
performance. And what's a Michelangelo or a Titian when a man's in love?

"Brace up, Dan. Who knows? Kitty may be on the high seas, that is, if
she has taken my advice and got a return-ticket. I'll give you a dinner
at the Bertolini to-night, and you may have the magnum of any vintage
you like. We'll have Tomass' drive us down the Via Caracciolo. It will
take some of the disappointment out of your system."

"Any old place," was the joyless response. "Seems to me that Italy has
all the cards when it comes to graft."

"America, my boy, is only in the primary department. Kitty's manager
forgot the most important thing of the whole outfit."

"What's that?"

"The Itching Palm. Evidently it had not been properly soothed. Come on;
we may run across some of our ship-acquaintances. To-morrow we'll start
for Rome, and then we shall add our own investigations to those of the
consul."

They had ridden up and down the Via Caracciolo twice when they espied a
huge automobile, ultramarine blue. It passed with a cloud of dust and a
rumble which was thunderous. Hillard half rose from his seat.

"Somebody you know?" asked Merrihew.

"The man at the wheel looked a bit like Sandford."

"Sandford? By George, that would be jolly!"

"Perhaps they will come this way again. Tomass', follow that motor."

Sure enough, when the car reached the Largo Vittoria, it wheeled and
came rumbling back. This time Hillard had no doubts. He stood up and
waved his arms. The automobile barked and groaned and came to a stand.

"Hello, Sandford!"

"Jack Hillard, as I live, and Dan Merrihew! Nell?" turning to one of the
three pretty women in the tonneau. "What did I tell you? I felt it in my
bones that we would run across some one we knew."

"Or over them," his wife laughed.

In a foreign land one's flag is no longer eyed negligently and
carelessly, as though it possessed no significance; it now becomes a
symbol of the soil wherein our hearts first took root. A popular tune we
have once scorned, now, when heard, catches us by the throat; the merest
acquaintance becomes a long-lost brother; and persons to whom we nod
indifferently at home now take the part of tried and true friends. But
when we meet an old friend, one who has accepted our dinners and with
whom we have often dined, what is left but to fall on his neck and weep?
There was, then, over this meeting, much ado with handshaking and
compliments, handshaking and questions; and, as in all cases like this,
every one talked at once. How was old New York? How was the winter in
Cairo? And so forth and so on, till a policeman politely told them that
this was not a private thoroughfare, and that they were blocking the
way. So they parted, the two young men having promised to dine with the
Sandford party that evening.

"What luck, Dan!" Hillard was exuberant.

"Saves you the price of a dinner."

"I wasn't thinking of that. But I shall find out all about her
to-night."

"Who?"

"The Lady in the Fog, the masquerading lady!"

"Bah! I should prefer something more solid than a vanishing lady."

"Look here, Dan, I never throw cold water on you."

"There have been times when it would have done my head good."

Sandford knew how to order a dinner; and so by the time that Merrihew
had emptied his second glass of Burgundy and his first of champagne, he
was in the haze of golden confidence. He would find Kitty, and when he
found her he would find her heart as well.

"Say, Jack," said Sandford, "what did you mean by that fool cable,
anyhow?"

Hillard had been patiently waiting for an opening of this sort. "And
what did you mean by hoaxing me?"

"Hoaxing you?"

"That's the word. I was in your house that night; I was there as surely
as I am here to-night."

"Nell, am I crazy, or is it Jack?"

"Sometimes," said Mrs. Sandford, "when you put the chauffeur in the
tonneau, I'm inclined to think that it is you."

Hillard looked straight into the placid grey eyes of his hostess. Very
slowly one of the white lids drooped. His heart bounded.

"But really," continued Sandford seriously, "unless you bribed the
caretaker, you could not possibly have entered the house. You have been
dreaming."

"Very well, then; it begins to look as if I had." It was apparent to
Hillard that Sandford was not in his wife's confidence in all things. He
also saw the wisdom of dropping the subject while at the table. To take
up the thread of that romance again! He needed no wine to tingle his
blood.

They took coffee and liqueur in the glass-inclosed balcony. All Naples
sparkled at their feet, and the young moon rose over the Sorrentine
Hills. Sandford and Merrihew and the other two ladies began an animated
exchange of experiences. Hillard found a quiet nook, not far from the
lift. He saw that Mrs. Sandford's chair was placed so that she could get
a good view of the superb night. He sat down himself, sipped his liqueur
meditatively, drank his coffee, and, as she nodded, lighted a cigarette.

"Well?" she said, smiling into his brown eyes. She was rather fond of
Hillard; a gentleman always, and one of excellent taste. There was never
any wearisome innuendo in his wit nor suggestion in his stories.

"You deliberately winked at me," he began.

"I deliberately did."

"Sandford is in the dark; I suspected as much."

"Regarding the wink?"

"Regarding the mysterious woman who occupied your house by your express
authority, and who rode the hunter in the park."

"Was there ever a more beautiful picture?" sweeping her hands toward the
city.

"The beauty of it will last several hours yet. Who and what was she?"

"I wish I could find you a wife; you would make a good husband."

"Thank you. I am even willing, with your assistance, to prove it. Who
was she, and how came she in your house?"

"She wished that favor, and that her presence in New York should not be
known. Now, describe to me exactly what happened. I am worrying about
the plate and the silver."

He laughed. "And you will meet me half-way?"

"I promise to tell you all I ... dare."

"There is a mystery?"

"Yes. So begin with your side of it."

He was a capital story-teller. He recounted the adventure in all its
color; the voice under his window, the personals in the paper, the
interchange of letters, the extraordinary dinner, the mask in the
envelope. She followed him with breathless interest.

"Charming, charming!" She clapped her hands. "And how well you tell it!
You have told it just as it happened."

"Just as it happened!" confounded for a moment.

"Exactly. I have had a letter, two, in fact. You did not see her face?"

"Only the chin and mouth. But if I ever meet her again I shall know her
by her teeth."

"Heavens! And how?"

"Two lower ones are gone; otherwise they would be beautiful."

"Poor man! You have builded your house upon the sands. Her teeth are
perfect. She has fooled you."

"But I saw with these two eyes!"

"There is a preparation which theatrical people use; a kind of gum. She
mentioned the trick. Isn't she clever?"

"Yet I shall know her hair," doggedly.

She put her hands swiftly to her head. "Now, you have known me for
years. What is the color of my hair?"

"Why, it is blond."

"Nothing of the kind. It is auburn. If you can not tell mine, how will
you tell hers?"

"I shall probably run after every red-headed woman in Europe till I find
her," humorously.

"If you can keep out of jail long enough."

"I shall at any rate remember her voice."

"That is better. Our ears never deceive half so often as our eyes."

"Her face is not scarred, is it?"

"Scarred!" indignantly. "She is as beautiful as a Raphael, as lovely as
a Bouguereau. If I were a man I should gladly journey round the world
for the sight of her."

"I am willing, even anxious."

"I should fall in love with her."

"I believe I have."

"And I should marry her, too."

"Even that."

"Come, Mr. Hillard; I am just fooling. You are too sensible a man to
fall in love with a shadow, a mask. Your fancy has been trapped, that is
all. One does not fall in love that way."

"You ought to know," with a sidelong glance at Sandford.

As her glance followed his, hers grew warm and kindly. Sandford, by
chance meeting the look, smiled back across the room. This little
by-play filled Hillard with a sense of envy and loneliness. At
three-and-thirty a bachelor realizes that there is something else in
life besides business and travel.

"It is quite useless to ask who she is?" he inquired of his hostess.

"Quite useless."

"She is married?"

"Certainly I have not said so."

He flicked the ash from his cigarette. What was the use of trying to
trap a woman into saying what she did not propose to say?

"Have you those letters?"

"One of them I'll show you."

"Why not the other?"

"It would be wasting time. It merely relates to your adventure. She
sailed the day after you dined with her."

"That accounts for the shutters. The police and the caretaker were
bribed."

"I suspect they were."

"If I were a vain man, and you know I am not, I might ask you if she
spoke well of me in this letter. Understand, I am not inquiring."

"But you put the question as adroitly as a woman. We are sure of vanity
always. Yes, she spoke of you. She found you to be an agreeable
gentleman. But," with gentle malice, "she did not say that she wished
she had met you years ago, under more favorable circumstances, or that
she liked your eyes, which are really fine ones."

He had to join in her laughter.

"Come, give me the death-stroke and have done with it. Tell me what you
dare, and I'll be content with it."

She opened her handkerchief purse and delved among the various articles
therein.

"I expected that you would be asking questions, so I came prepared. I
did not tell my husband for that very reason. He would have insisted
upon knowing everything. Here, read this. It is only a glimpse."

He searched eagerly for the signature.

"Don't bother," she said. "The name is only a nickname we gave her at
school."

"School? Do you mean to tell me that you went to school with her?
Where?"

"In Pennsylvania first; then in Milan. Read."

     O Cara Mia--If only you knew how sorry I am to miss you! Why must
     you sail at once? Why not come to my beautiful Venice? True, I
     could not entertain you as in the days of my good father. But I
     have so much to say to you that can not be written. You ask about
     the adventure. Pouf! goes my little dream of greatness. It was a
     blank failure. Much as I knew about Italy I could not know
     everything. The officials put unheard-of obstacles in our path. The
     contracts were utterly disregarded. In the first place, we had not
     purchased our costumes and scenery in Italy.

"Costumes and scenery?" Hillard sought the signature again. Mrs.
Sandford was staring at the moonlit bay.

     That poor manager! And that poor man who advanced the money! They
     forgot that the booking is as nothing, the incidentals everything.
     The base of all the trouble was a clerk in the consulate at Naples.
     He wrote us that there would be no duties on costumes and scenery.
     Alas! the manager and his backer are on the way to America, sadder
     and wiser men. We surrendered our return tickets to the chorus and
     sent them home. The rest of us are stranded--is not that the
     word?--here in Venice, waiting for money from home. If I were
     alone, it would be highly amusing; but these poor people with me!
     There is only one way I can help them, but that, never. You
     recollect that my personal income is quarterly, and it will be two
     months before I shall have funds. I could get it advanced, but I
     dare not. There are persons moving Heaven and earth to find me. My
     companions haven't the least idea who I am; to them I am one of the
     profession. So here we all are, wandering about the Piazza San
     Marco, calling at Cook's every day in hopes of money, and
     occasionally risking a penny in corn for the doves. I am staying
     with my nurse, my mother's maid, in the Canipo Santa Maria Formosa,
     near our beloved Santa Barbara. Very quietly I have guaranteed the
     credit of my unfortunate companions, and they believe that
     Venetians are very generous people. Generous! Think of it! Come to
     Venice, dear; it is all nonsense that you must return to America.
     Perhaps you will wonder how I dared appear on the stage in Italy. A
     black wig and a theatrical make-up; these were sufficient. A duke
     sent me an invitation to take supper with him, as if I were a
     ballerina! I sent one of the American chorus girls, a little minx
     for mischief. She ate his supper, and then ran away. I understand
     that he was furious. Only a few months more, Nell, and then I may
     come and go as I please. Come to Venice. Capricciosa.

Hillard did not stir. Another labyrinth to this mystery! Capricciosa;
Kitty Killigrew's unknown prima donna; and all he had to do was to take
the morning train for Venice, and twenty-four hours later he would be
prowling through the Campo Santa Maria Formosa. Though his mind was busy
with a hundred thoughts, his head was still bent and his eyes riveted
upon the page.

Mrs. Sandford observed him curiously, even sadly. Why couldn't his fancy
have been charmed by an every-day, sensible girl, and not by this
whimsical, extraordinary woman who fooled diplomats, flaunted dukes, and
kept a king at arm's length as a pastime? And yet--!

"Capricciosa," he mused aloud. "That is not her name."

"And I shall not tell it you."

"But her given name? Just a straw; something to hold on; I'm a drowning
man." Hillard's pleadings would have melted a heart of stone.

"It is Hilda."

"That is German."

"She prefers it to Sonia."

"Sonia Hilda; it begins well. May I keep this letter?"

"Certainly not. With that _cara mia_? Give it to me."

He did so. "Shall I seek her?"

"This is my advice: don't think of her after to-night. If you ever see
or recognize her, avoid her. It may sound theatrical, but she is the
innocent cause of two deaths. These men sought her openly, too."

"What has she done?"

"She made a great, though common, mistake."

"Political?"

Her lips closed firmly, but a smile lurked in the corners.

He sighed.

"Don't be foolish. I am sorry I let you see the letter. I forgot that
she told me her hiding-place."

"Her hiding-place?"

"Mr. Hillard, she is as far removed from your orbit as Mars' is from
Jupiter's. Forget her."

"My orbit is not limited. I shall seek her; when I find her I
shall ... marry her."

But her lips closed again.

"Sphinx!" he murmured with reproach.

"I like you too much, Mr. Hillard, to stand by and see you break your
heart against a stone wall."

"Don't you see, the deeper the mystery is the more powerful the
attraction becomes?"

The door to the lift opened and closed noisily, and Hillard turned
negligently. A man sauntered through the room. The moment he came into
the light Hillard's interest became lively enough: It was the handsome
Italian with the scar.

"Who is that man?" he whispered. "Only a few weeks ago I bumped into him
on coming out of the club."

A swift glance, then her eyes grew unfriendly, her shoulders rigid and
repellent.

"Do not attract his attention," she answered in a low tone. "Yes, I know
him, and I do not wish him to see me."

"Who is he?" he repeated.

"A Venetian officer, and a profligate. I entertained him once, but I
learned from him that I had been ill-advised."

Hillard saw that this subject would admit of no further questions. The
man with the scar had committed some inexcusable offense, and Mrs.
Sandford had crossed him off the list. He knew that the Italian officer
is, more or less, a lady's man; and the supreme confidence he has in the
power of brass buttons and gold lace makes him at times insufferable.

It was after ten when Hillard and his friend took their leave. They
would not see their host and hostess again till they reached New York.
Upon coming out on the Corso, Hillard whistled merrily.

"Pleasant evening," was Merrihew's comment.

Hillard continued to whistle.

"Good dinner, too."

The whistle went on serenely, in spite of Merrihew's obvious attempts to
choke it off.

"You seemed to have a good deal to say to Mrs. Sandford. She knows the
lady who was in the house?"

Still the whistle.

"Say, wake up!" cried Merrihew impatiently.

"We shall leave in the morning for Venice," said Hillard, taking up the
tune again.

"Venice? How about Rome and Florence?"

"Which would you prefer: Rome and the antiquities, or Venice and--Kitty
Killigrew?"

"Kitty in Venice? Are you sure?"

"She is there with La Signorina Capricciosa. Oh, this is a fine world,
after all, and I was wrong to speak ill of it this morning."

"If Kitty's in Venice, I'm an ungrateful beggar, too. But I do not see
why Kitty's being in Venice excites you."

"No? Well, fate writes that Kitty's mysterious prima donna and my Lady
of the Mask are one and the same person."

"No!"

The two, without further words, marched along the middle of the Corso to
the hotel, which was only a few steps away. They entered. The concierge
started toward them as if he desired to impart some valuable
information, but suddenly reconsidered, and retreated to his bandbox of
an office and busied himself with the ever-increasing _debours_. The
strangeness of his movements passed unnoticed by the two men, who
continued on through the lobby, turning into the first corridor. Hillard
inserted his key in the door of his room, unlocked it, and swung it
inward. This done, he paused irresolutely on the threshold, and with
good cause.

"What the devil can this mean?" he whispered to Merrihew, who peered
over his shoulder.

Two dignified _carabinieri_ rose quickly and approached Hillard. There
was something in the flashing eyes and set jaws that made him realize
that the safest thing for him to do at that moment was to stand
perfectly still!




CHAPTER X

CARABINIERI


"Signori," began Hillard calmly, "before you act, will you not do me the
honor to explain to me the meaning of this visit?"

"It is not he!" said one of the _carabinieri_. "It is the master, and
not the servant. This is Signore Hil_lar_, is it not?" he continued,
addressing himself to Hillard.

"Yes."

"The signore has a servant by the name of Giovanni?"

"Yes. And what has he done to warrant this visit?" Hillard asked less
calmly.

"It is a matter of seven years," answered the spokesman. "Your servant
attempted to kill an officer in Rome. Luigi here, who was then
interested in the case in Rome, thought he recognized Giovanni in the
street to-day. Inquiries led us here."

"Ah!" Hillard thought quickly. "I am afraid that you have had your
trouble for nothing. Giovanni is now a citizen of the United States,
under full protection of its laws, domestic and foreign. It would not be
wise for you to touch him."

The _carabinieri_ stared at each other. They shrugged.

"Signore, we recognize no foreign citizenship for our countrymen who,
having committed a crime, return to the scene of it. We are here to
arrest him. He will be tried and sentenced. But it is possible that he
may be allowed to return to America, once he has been proved guilty of
intent to kill."

Hillard flushed, but he curbed the rise in his temper. It was enough
that the United States was made the dumping-ground of the criminal
courts of Europe, without having it forced upon him in this
semi-contemptuous fashion. The _carabinieri_ saw the effort.

"The signore speaks Italian so well that he will understand that we have
nothing to do with deportation. Our business is simply to arrest
offenders against the State. It is to the State you must look for
redress; and here the State is indifferent where the offender goes, so
long as it is far away." The speaker bowed ceremoniously.

"Yes, I understand. But I repeat, my servant is a legal citizen of the
United States, and there will be complications if you touch him."

"Not for us. That rests between you and the State. Our orders are to
arrest him."

"At any rate, it looks as though Giovanni had been forewarned of your
visit. And may I ask, what is the name of the officer Giovanni attempted
to kill?"

"It is not necessary that you should know."

Hillard accepted the rebuke with becoming grace.

"And now, signore," with the utmost courtesy, "permit us to apologize
for this intrusion. We shall wait in the hall, and if we find Giovanni
we shall gladly notify you of the event."

The two officers bowed and passed out into the corridor. Hillard raised
his hat, and closed the door.

"Now, what the deuce has all this powwow been about?" demanded Merrihew;
for he had understood nothing, despite his _How to Speak Italian in One
Day_.

"It's that rascal Giovanni."

"Did he find his man and cut him up?"

"No. It seems that these carabinieri have remark-able memories; the old
affair. Poor devil! I can't imagine how they traced him here. But I
repeatedly warned him about going abroad in the daylight. Hello, what's
this?" going to the table. It was a note addressed to him; and it was
from the fugitive.

     My kind master--The _carabinieri_ are after me. But rest easy. I
     was not born to rot in a dungeon. I am going north. As for my
     clothes, send them to Giacamo, the baker, who lives on the road to
     El Deserta. He will understand. May the Holy Mother guard you,
     should we never meet again!

Hillard passed the note to Merrihew.

"That's too bad. I've taken a great fancy to him. It seems that the
peasant has no chance on this side of the water. His child a painted
dancer in Paris, and a price on his own head! It's hard luck. And the
fellow who caused all this trouble goes free."

"He always goes free, Dan, here or elsewhere."

"Why, we'd have lynched him in America."

"That's possible. We are such an impulsive race," ironically. "Yes, no
doubt we'd have lynched him; and these foreigners would have added
another ounce of fact to their belief that we are still barbarians."

"I hadn't thought of that," Merrihew admitted. Till now he had never
cared particularly whether a foreigner's opinion was favorable or not.

"No, but when you start for home you will always think of it. Our
reporters demand of the foreigner, barely he has stepped ashore, what he
thinks of the United States; and then nearly every one he meets helps to
form the opinion that we are insufferably underbred. Ours is not studied
incivility; it is worse than that; it is downright carelessness."

"I am beginning to see things differently. When the concierge tips his
hat, I tip mine. Since Giovanni is gone, suppose we pack up? There's
little to do, as the trunks are as we left them. But I say, how is it
that all these _carabinieri_ we see are so tall? The Neapolitan is
invariably short and thick-set."

"They come from the north as far as Domo d'Ossola; mountaineers. Italy
has a good policy regarding her military police. The Neapolitan is sent
north and the Venetian and Tuscan south, out of reach of family ties and
feuds. Thus, there is never any tug between duty and friendship. The
truth is, the Italian is less inclined toward duty than toward
friendship. This isolation makes the _carabinieri_ the right hand of the
army, and no other soldier in Europe is half so proud of his uniform,
not even the German. The people smile as they pass, you will notice
always in pairs; but when they are in trouble, these weather-vane
people, they fly straight to the _carabinieri_. Imagine the cocksureness
and insolence we'd have suffered from two New York policemen, had we
found them in our homes! Oh, I have a soft spot for the _carabinieri_.
You will find no brigands in Italy now; that is because the
_carabinieri_ are everywhere, silent, watchful, on highways, in the
mountains, in all villages and in all stations. I have never seen one of
them ogle a woman. And never ask them where your hotel is, or the
station, or such and such a street. They will always tell you, but they
secretly resent it."

"I'll remember; but so far as I'm concerned, they'd have an easy time of
it. Why, I couldn't ask a question in billboard Italian. Now, out with
it; where and how did you learn that Kitty is in Venice?"

Hillard told him briefly.

"And so they are all in Venice, broke? By George, here's our chance;
everlasting gratitude and all that. We'll bail 'em out and ship 'em
home! How is that for a bright idea?" Merrihew had regained his usual
enthusiasm.

"Let me see," said Hillard practically. "There are five of them: five
hundred for tickets and doubtless five hundred more for unpaid hotel
bills. It would never do, Dan, unless we wish to go home with them."

"But I haven't touched my letter of credit yet. I could get along on two
thousand."

"Not with the brand of cigars you are smoking; a lira-fifty each."

"Well I'll try the native brand for a while, _Trabucos_."

"Not in my immediate vicinity," Hillard objected. "No, we can't bail
them out, but we can ease up their bills till money comes from home. Not
one of them by this time will have a watch. O'Mally will remain sober
from dire necessity. Poor Kitty Killigrew! All the wonderful shops and
not a stiver in her pockets!"

"Aren't they the most careless lot, these professional people? They
never prepare for emergencies, and are always left high and dry. Instead
of putting their cash in banks, they buy diamonds, with the idea that
they have always something convertible into cash at a moment's notice."

"Usually at one-third of what the original price was." Hillard threw off
his hat and coat and lighted his pipe.

Merrihew paced the floor for some time, his head full of impossible
schemes. He stopped in the middle of the room with an abruptness which
portended something.

"I have it. Instead of going directly to Venice, we'll change the route
and go to Monte Carlo. I'll risk my four hundred, and if I win!"

"Then the announcement cards, a house-wedding, and pictures in the New
York papers. Dan, you are impossible. You have gambled enough to know
that when you are careless of results you win, but never when you need
the cash. But it is Monte Carlo, if you say so. Two or three days there
will cure you of your beautiful dream. After all," with a second
thought, "it's a good cause, and it might be just your luck to win. The
masquerading lady! I'll stake my word that there is comedy within
comedy, and rare good comedy at that. Monte Carlo it is."

Merrihew danced a jig. Hillard stepped to the mirror and bowed
profoundly. The jig ceased.

"Madame, permit me, a comparative stranger, to offer you passage money
home. We won it at Monte Carlo; take it, it is yours. Polite enough,"
mused Hillard, turning and smiling; "but hanged if it sounds proper."

"To the deuce with propriety!" cried Merrihew buoyantly. "We'll start,
then, at nine to-morrow?"

"At nine promptly."

"I'm off to bed, then." As Merrihew reached the door he paused. "I
forgot to tell you. Do you recollect that Italian you ran into at the
club that night? Saw him at the hotel to-night. He bowed to Sandford,
and Sandford cut him dead. It set me thinking."

"The Sandfords entertained him somewhere, once upon a time, and he
behaved like a cad. I don't know what about, and I don't care."

"Humph! I hope Giovanni gets off safely."

"I think he will."

When Merrihew had gone Hillard opened the shutters to clear the room of
the tobacco smoke, and stood beside the sill, absorbing the keen night
air and admiring the serene beauty of the picture which lay spread
before him. The moon stood high and clear now, the tiled roofs shone
mistily, and from some near-by garden came the perfume of boxwood and
roses. All was silence; noisy Naples slept. He would see her face this
time; he would tear aside the mystery. She had made a great mistake?
That was of small consequence to him. He could laugh at Mrs. Sandford's
warning. He was no green and untried youth; he was a man. Then he
laughed aloud. It was so droll. Here was Merrihew in love with the
soubrette, and he himself.... _Was_ he in love, or was only his fancy
trapped? A fine comedy! The soubrette and the prima donna! He closed the
shutters, for the Neapolitan is naturally a thief, and an open window is
as large as a door to him. He packed his cases, and this done, went to
bed. For a time he could hear Merrihew in the adjoining room; but even
this noise ceased. Hillard fell asleep and dreamed that he and Giovanni
were being pursued by _carabinieri_ in petticoats and half-masks, that
Merrihew had won tons of napoleons at Monte Carlo, and that Kitty
Killigrew was a princess in disguise. Such is the vagary of dreams.




CHAPTER XI

THE CITY IN THE SEA


From her window Kitty looked down on the Campo which lay patched with
black shadows and moonshine. A magic luster, effective as hoar-frost,
enveloped the ancient church, and the lines of the eaves and the turns
of the corners were silver-bright. How still at night was this fairy
city in the sea! Save for the occasional booming of bells--and in Italy
they are for ever and ever booming--and the low warning cry of the
gondoliers, there was nothing which spoke of life, certainly not here in
the Campo Santa Maria Formosa. There were no horses clattering over the
stone pavements, no trams, no omnibuses; the stillness which was of
peace lay over all things. And some of this had entered Kitty's heart.
She was not deeply read, but nevertheless she had her share of poetical
feeling. And to her everything in the venerable city teemed with
unexpressed lyric. What if the Bridge of Sighs was not true, or the fair
Desdemona had not dwelt in a palace on the Grand Canal, or the Merchant
had neither bought nor sold in the shadow of the Rialto bridge?
Historians are not infallible, and it is sometimes easier and pleasanter
to believe the poets.

But for one thing the hour would have been perfect. Kitty, ordinarily
brave and cheerful, was very lonesome and homesick. Tears sparkled in
her eyes and threatened to fall at any moment. It was all very well to
dream of old Venice; but when home and friends kept intruding
constantly! The little bank-account was so small that five hundred would
wipe it out of existence. And now she would be out of employment till
the coming autumn. The dismal failure of it all! She had danced, sung,
spoken her lines the very best she knew how; and none had noticed or
encouraged her. It was a bitter cup, after all the success at home. If
only she could take it philosophically; like La Signorina! She shut her
eyes. How readily she could see the brilliant, noisy, friendly Broadway,
the electric signs before the theaters, the gay crowds in the
restaurants! It was all very fine to see Europe on a comfortable letter
of credit, but to see it under such circumstances as these, that was a
different matter. To live in this evil-smelling old tenement, with
seldom any delicacy to eat, a strange jabber-jabber ringing in one's
ears from morning till night, and to wait day after day for that letter
from home, was not a situation such as would hearten one's love of
romance. The men had it much easier; they always do. There was ever some
place for a man to go; and there were three of them, and they could talk
to one another. But here, unless La Signorina was about--and she had an
odd way of disappearing--she, Kitty, had to twiddle her thumbs or talk
to herself, for she could understand nothing these people, kindly enough
in their way, said to her.

She opened her eyes again, and this time the tears flowed unheeded. Of
what use is pride, unless it be observed by others? She missed some one,
a frank, merry, kind-hearted some one; and it was balm to her heart to
admit it at last. Had he appeared to her at that moment, she must have
fallen gratefully into his arms.

And there were so many things she could not understand. Why should La
Signorina always go veiled? Why should she hide her splendid beauty?
Where did she disappear so mysteriously in the daytime? And those
sapphires, and diamonds, and emeralds? Why live here, with such a
fortune hanging round her neck? Kitty forgot that, for the sake of
sentiment, one will sometimes eat a crust when one might dine like a
prince.

"Kitty?" The voice came from the doorway. Kitty was startled for a
moment, but it was only La Signorina. Kitty furtively wiped her eyes.

"I am over here by the window. The moon was so bright I did not light
the lamp."

La Signorina moved with light step to the window, bent and caught
Kitty's face between her hands and turned it firmly toward the moon.

"You have been crying, _cara_!"

"I am very lonely," said Kitty.

"You poor little homeless bird!" La Signorina seized Kitty impulsively
in her arms. "If I were not--" She hesitated.

"If you were not?"

"If I were not poor, but rich instead, I'd take you to one of the
fashionable hotels. You are out of place here, in this rambling old
ruin."

"Not half so much as you are," Kitty replied.

"I am never out of place. I can live comfortably in the fields with the
peasants, in cities, in extravagant hotels. It is the mind, my dear, not
the body. My mind is always at one height; where the body is does not
matt

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