was endeavoring to
piece together the few facts she had been able to extract from the rubbish
of conjecture. Courtlandt and Nora had met somewhere before the beginning
of her own intimacy with the singer. They certainly must have formed an
extraordinary friendship, for Nora's subsequent vindictiveness could not
possibly have arisen out of the ruins of an indifferent acquaintance. Nora
could not be moved from the belief that Courtlandt had abducted her; but
Celeste was now positive that he had had nothing to do with it. He did not
impress her as a man who would abduct a woman, hold her prisoner for five
days, and then liberate her without coming near her to press his vantage,
rightly or wrongly. He was too strong a personage. He was here in
Bellaggio, and attached to that could be but one significance.

Why, then, had he not spoken at the photographer's? Perhaps she herself
had been sufficient reason for his dumbness. He had recognized her, and
the espionage of the night in Paris was no longer a mystery. Nora had sent
her to follow him; why then all this bitterness, since she had not been
told where he had gone? Had Nora forgotten to inquire? It was possible
that, in view of the startling events which had followed, the matter had
slipped entirely from Nora's mind. Many a time she had resorted to that
subtle guile known only of woman to trap the singer. But Nora never
stumbled, and her smile was as firm a barrier to her thoughts, her
secrets, as a stone wall would have been.

Celeste had known about Herr Rosen's infatuation. Aside from that which
concerned this stranger, Nora had withheld no real secret from her. Herr
Rosen had been given his conge, but that did not prevent him from sending
fabulous baskets of flowers and gems, all of which were calmly returned
without comment. Whenever a jewel found its way into a bouquet of flowers
from an unknown, Nora would promptly convert it into money and give the
proceeds to some charity. It afforded the singer no small amusement to
show her scorn in this fashion. Yes, there was one other little mystery
which she did not confide to her friends. Once a month, wherever she
chanced to be singing, there arrived a simple bouquet of marguerites, in
the heart of which they would invariably find an uncut emerald. Nora never
disposed of these emeralds. The flowers she would leave in her
dressing-room; the emerald would disappear. Was there some one else?

Mrs. Harrigan took the omnibus u