e!" she called. "Am I making you miss this dance?"

"It does not matter, Signorina." The Barone stared keenly at the erect and
tense figure at the prima donna's side.

"You will excuse me, Herr Rosen," said Nora, as she laid her hand upon the
Barone's arm.

Herr Rosen bowed stiffly; and the two left him standing uncovered in the
moonlight.

"What is he doing here? What has he been saying to you?" the Barone
demanded. Nora withdrew her hand from his arm. "Pardon me," said he
contritely. "I have no right to ask you such questions."

It was not long after midnight when the motor-boat returned to its abiding
place. On the way over conversation lagged, and finally died altogether.
Mrs. Harrigan fell asleep against Celeste's shoulder, and the musician
never deviated her gaze from the silver ripples which flowed out
diagonally and magically from the prow of the boat. Nora watched the stars
slowly ascend over the eastern range of mountains; and across the fire of
his innumerable cigarettes the Barone watched her.

As the boat was made fast to the landing in front of the Grand Hotel,
Celeste observed a man in evening dress, lounging against the rail of the
quay. The search-light from the customs-boat, hunting for tobacco
smugglers, flashed over his face. She could not repress the little gasp,
and her hand tightened upon Nora's arm.

"What is it?" asked Nora.

"Nothing. I thought I was slipping."

CHAPTER IX

COLONEL CAXLEY-WEBSTER

Abbott's studio was under the roof of one of the little hotels that stand
timorously and humbly, yet expectantly, between the imposing cream-stucco
of the Grand Hotel at one end and the elaborate pink-stucco of the Grande
Bretegne at the other. The hobnailed shoes of the Teuton (who wears his
mountain kit all the way from Hamburg to Palermo) wore up and down the
stairs all day; and the racket from the hucksters' carts and hotel
omnibuses, arriving and departing from the steamboat landing, the shouts
of the begging boatmen, the quarreling of the children and the barking of
unpedigreed dogs,--these noises were incessant from dawn until sunset.

The artist glared down from his square window at the ruffled waters, or
scowled at the fleeting snows on the mountains over the way. He passed
some ten or twelve minutes in this useless occupation, but he could not
get away from the bald fact that he had acted like a petulant child. To
have shown his hand so openly, simply because the Barone