"Never showed any signs of being a woman-hater?"

"No, not the least in the world. But to shy at meeting Nora Harrigan...."

"There you have it; the privilege of the gods. Perhaps he really has
business in Menaggio. What'll we do with the other beggar?"

"Knock his head off, if he bothers her."

"Better turn the job over to Courtlandt, then. You're in the light-weight
class, and Courtlandt is the best amateur for his weight I ever saw."

"What, boxes?"

"A tough 'un. I had a corporal who beat any one in Northern India.
Courtlandt put on the gloves with him and had him begging in the third
round."

"I never knew that before. He's as full of surprises as a rummage bag."

Courtlandt walked up the street leisurely, idly pausing now and then
before the shop-windows. Apparently he had neither object nor destination;
yet his mind was busy, so busy in fact that he looked at the various
curios without truly seeing them at all. A delicate situation, which
needed the lightest handling, confronted him. He must wait for an overt
act, then he might proceed as he pleased. How really helpless he was! He
could not force her hand because she held all the cards and he none. Yet
he was determined this time to play the game to the end, even if the task
was equal to all those of Hercules rolled into one, and none of the gods
on his side.

At the hotel he asked for his mail, and was given a formidable packet
which, with a sigh of discontent, he slipped into a pocket, strolled out
into the garden by the water, and sat down to read. To his surprise there
was a note, without stamp or postmark. He opened it, mildly curious to
learn who it was that had discovered his presence in Bellaggio so quickly.
The envelope contained nothing more than a neatly folded bank-note for one
hundred francs. He eyed it stupidly. What might this mean? He unfolded it
and smoothed it out across his knee, and the haze of puzzlement drifted
away. Three bars from _La Boheme_. He laughed. So the little lady of the
Taverne Royale was in Bellaggio!

CHAPTER X

MARGUERITES AND EMERALDS

From where he sat Courtlandt could see down the main thoroughfare of the
pretty village. There were other streets, to be sure, but courtesy and
good nature alone permitted this misapplication of title: they were merely
a series of torturous enervating stairways of stone, up and down which
noisy wooden sandals clattered all the day long. Over the entrances to the
shops th