CHAPTER III

I am sorry to learn that mysinging disturbed you. Therewas 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!

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 Cumæan 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 strangepalazzo, and the stuffy, ill-smellingtrattoriathey 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.

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.

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,amI 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 theLondon 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 fête; 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 thousandcouldbe 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 Mère 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 ofThe Modern Maidcompany, 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.

"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 séance. 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!

Masked! Only her mouth and chin were visible, and several little pieces of court-plaster effectually disguised these. Therewasa 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'sPapillonfluttered softly from flower to flower.

He sat there, waiting and listening. From the light and airy butterfly, the music changed to Farwell'sNorwegian 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 theAlmanach 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 theAlmanach, 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 theAlmanach. 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.

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