the closing measures of the mad
scene from "Lucia," and Diotti was number four on the program. The
conductor stood beside his platform, ready to ascend as Diotti appeared.

The audience, ever ready to act when those on the stage cease that
occupation, gave a splendid imitation of the historic last scene at the
Tower of Babel. Having accomplished this to its evident satisfaction,
the audience proceeded, like the closing phrase of the
"Goetterdaemmerung" Dead March, to become exceedingly quiet--then
expectant.

This expectancy lasted fully three minutes. Then there were some
impatient handclappings. A few persons whispered: "Why is he late?"
"Why doesn't he come?" "I wonder where Diotti is," and then came
unmistakable signs of impatience. At its height Perkins appeared,
hesitatingly. Nervous and jerky he walked to the center of the stage,
and raised his hand begging silence. The audience was stilled.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he falteringly said, "Signor Diotti left his
hotel at seven o'clock and was driven to the Academy. The call-boy
rapped at his dressing-room, and not receiving a reply, opened the door
to find the room empty. We have despatched searchers in every direction
and have sent out a police alarm. We fear some accident has befallen
the Signor. We ask your indulgence for the keen disappointment, and beg
to say that your money will be refunded at the box-office."

Diotti had disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed
him.

V

My Dearest Sister: You doubtless were exceedingly mystified and
troubled over the report that was flashed to Europe regarding my sudden
disappearance on the eve of my second concert in New York.

Fearing, sweet Francesca, that you might mourn me as dead, I sent the
cablegram you received some weeks since, telling you to be of good
heart and await my letter. To make my action thoroughly understood I
must give you a record of what happened to me from the first day I
arrived in America. I found a great interest manifested in my premiere,
and socially everything was done to make me happy.

Mrs. James Llewellyn, whom, you no doubt remember, we met in Florence
the winter of 18--, immediately after I reached New York arranged a
reception for me, which was elegant in the extreme. But from that night
dates my misery.

You ask her name?--Mildred Wallace. Tell me what she is like, I hear
you say. Of graceful height, willowy and exquisitely molded, not over
twenty-fo