LITMIR.BIZ

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at all ordinary about her. His sense of puzzlement renewed itself and deepened. What did she want of him? There were other men, other vacant chairs.

      “Monsieur is certain about the taxicab?”

      “Absolutely.”

      “Ah, it is to emulate Saint Anthony!”

      “There are several saints of that name. To which do you refer?”

      “Positively not to him of Padua.”

      Courtlandt laughed. “No, I can not fancy myself being particularly concerned about bambini. No, my model is Noah.”

      “Noah?” dubiously.

      “Yes. At the time of the flood there was only one woman in the world.”

      “I am afraid that your knowledge of that event is somewhat obscured. Still, I understand.”

      She lifted the wine-glass again, and then he noticed her hand. It was large, white and strong; it was not the hand of a woman who dallied, who idled in primrose paths.

      “Tell me, what is it you wish? You interest me, at a moment, too, when I do not want to be interested. Are you really in trouble? Is there anything I can do … barring the taxicab?”

      She twirled the glass, uneasily. “I am not in actual need of assistance.”

      “But you spoke peculiarly regarding loneliness.”

      “Perhaps I like the melodrama. You spoke of the Ambigu-Comique.”

      “You are on the stage?”

      “Perhaps.”

      “The Opera?”

      “Again perhaps.”

      He laughed once more, and drew his chair closer to the table.

      “Monsieur in other moods must have a pleasant laughter.”

      “I haven’t laughed from the heart in a very long time,” he said, returning to his former gravity, this time unassumed.

      “And I have accomplished this amazing thing?”

      “No. You followed me here. But from where?”

      “Followed you?” The effort to give a mocking accent to her voice was a failure.

      “Yes. The idea just occurred to me. There were other vacant chairs, and there was nothing inviting in my facial expression. Come, let me have the truth.”

      “I have a friend who knows Flora Desimone.”

      “Ah!” As if this information was a direct visitation of kindness from the gods. “Then you know where the Calabrian lives? Give me her address.”

      There was a minute wrinkle above the unknown’s nose; the shadow of a frown. “She is very beautiful.”

      “Bah! Did she send you after me? Give me her address. I have come all the way from Burma to see Flora Desimone.”

      “To see her?” She unguardedly clothed the question with contempt, but she instantly forced a smile to neutralize the effect. Concerned with her own defined conclusions, she lost the fine ironic bitterness that was in the man’s voice.

      “Aye, indeed, to see her! Beautiful as Venus, as alluring as Phryne, I want nothing so much as to see her, to look into her eyes, to hear her voice!”

      “Is it jealousy? I hear the tragic note.” The certainty of her ground became as morass again. In his turn he was puzzling her.

      “Tragedy? I am an American. We do not kill opera singers. We turn them over to the critics. I wish to see the beautiful Flora, to ask her a few questions. If she has sent you after me, her address, my dear young lady, her address.” His eyes burned.

      “I am afraid.” And she was so. This wasn’t the tone of a man madly in love. It was wild anger.

      “Afraid of what?”

      “You.”

      “I will give you a hundred francs.” He watched her closely and shrewdly.

      Came the little wrinkle again, but this time urged in perplexity. “A hundred francs, for something I was sent to tell you?”

      “And now refuse.”

      “It is very generous. She has a heart of flint, Monsieur.”

      “Well I know it. Perhaps now I have one of steel.”

      “Many sparks do not make a fire. Do you know that your French is very good?”

      “I spent my boyhood in Paris; some of it. Her address, if you please.” He produced a crisp note for a hundred francs. “Do you want it?”

      She did not answer at once. Presently she opened her purse, found a stubby pencil and a slip of paper, and wrote. “There it is, Monsieur.” She held out her hand for the bank-note which, with a sense of bafflement, he gave her. She folded the note and stowed it away with the pencil.

      “Thank you,” said Courtlandt. “Odd paper, though.” He turned it over. “Ah, I understand. You copy music.”

      “Yes, Monsieur.”

      This time the nervous flicker of her eyes did not escape him. “You are studying for the opera, perhaps?”

      “Yes, that is it.”

      The eagerness of the admission convinced him that she was not. Who she was or whence she had come no longer excited his interest. He had the Calabrian’s address and he was impatient to be off.

      “Good night.” He rose.

      “Monsieur is not gallant.”

      “I was in my youth,” he replied, putting on his hat.

      The bald rudeness of his departure did not disturb her. She laughed softly and relievedly. Indeed, there was in the laughter an essence of mischief. However, if he carried away a mystery, he left one behind.

      As he was hunting for a taxicab, the waiter ran out and told him that he had forgotten to settle for the wine. The lady had refused to do so. Courtlandt chuckled and gave him a ten-franc piece. In other days, in other circumstances, he would have liked to know more about the unknown who scribbled notes on composition paper. She was not an idler in the Rue Royale, and it did not require that indefinable intuition which comes of worldly-wiseness to discover this fact. She might be a friend of the Desimone woman, but she had stepped out of another sphere to become so. He recognized the quality that could adjust itself to any environment and come out scatheless. This was undeniably an American accomplishment; and yet she was distinctly a Frenchwoman. He dismissed the problem from his mind and bade the driver go as fast as the police would permit.

      Meanwhile the young woman waited five or ten minutes, and, making sure that Courtlandt had been driven off, left the restaurant. Round the corner she engaged a carriage. So that was Edward Courtlandt? She liked his face; there was not a weak line in it, unless stubbornness could be called such. But to stay away for two years! To hide himself in jungles, to be heard of only by his harebrained exploits! “Follow him; see where he goes,” had been the command. For a moment she had rebelled, but her curiosity was not to be denied. Besides, of what use was friendship if not to be tried? She knew nothing of the riddle, she had never asked a question openly. She had accidentally seen a photograph one day, in a trunk tray, with this man’s name scrawled across it, and upon this flimsy base she had builded a dozen romances, each of which she had ruthlessly torn down to make room for another; but still the riddle lay unsolved. She had thrown the name into the conversation many a time, as one might throw a bomb into a crowd which had no chance to escape. Fizzles! The man had been calmly discussed and calmly dismissed. At odd times an article in the newspapers gave her an opportunity; still the frank discussion, still the calm dismissal. She had learned that the man was rich, irresponsible, vacillating, a picturesque

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