erly military attache at
the Italian embassy in Berlin. Sunday noon Mademoiselle Fournier had
notified the authorities. She did not know, but she felt sure that the
blond stranger knew more than any one else. And here was the end of
things. The police found themselves at a standstill. They searched the
hotels but without success; the blond stranger could not be found.

Abbott's eyes were not happy and pleasant just now. They were dull and
blank with the reaction of the stunning blow. He, too, was certain of the
Barone. Much as he secretly hated the Italian, he knew him to be a
fearless and an honorable man. But who could this blond stranger be who
appeared so sinisterly in the two scenes? From where had he come? Why had
Nora refused to explain about the pistol-shot? Any woman had a perfect
right to shoot a man who forced his way into her apartment. Was he one of
those mad fools who had fallen in love with her, and had become desperate?
Or was it some one she knew and against whom she did not wish to bring any
charges? Abducted! And she might be, at this very moment, suffering all
sorts of indignities. It was horrible to be so helpless.

The sparkle of the sunlight upon the ferrule of a cane, extending over his
shoulder, broke in on his agonizing thoughts. He turned, an angry word on
the tip of his tongue. He expected to see some tourist who wanted to be
informed.

"Ted Courtlandt!" He jumped up, overturning the stool. "And where the
dickens did you come from? I thought you were in the Orient?"

"Just got back, Abby."

The two shook hands and eyed each other with the appraising scrutiny of
friends of long standing.

"You don't change any," said Abbott.

"Nor do you. I've been standing behind you fully two minutes. What were
you glooming about? Old Silenus offend you?"

"Have you read the _Herald_ this morning?"

"I never read it nowadays. They are always giving me a roast of some kind.
Whatever I do they are bound to misconstrue it." Courtlandt stooped and
righted the stool, but sat down on the grass, his feet in the path.
"What's the trouble? Have they been after you?"

Abbott rescued the offending paper and shaking it under his friend's nose,
said: "Read that."

Courtlandt's eyes widened considerably as they absorbed the significance
of the heading--"Eleonora da Toscana missing."

"Bah!" he exclaimed.

"You say bah?"

"It looks like one of their advertising dodges. I know something about
singers," Cou