edge gratified him; he stood nearer to Courtlandt than any other man.
He had known the adventurer as a boy, and long separations had in nowise
impaired the foundations of this friendship.

Courtlandt continued toward the exit, his head forward, his gaze bent on
the path. He had the air of a man deep in thought, philosophic thought,
which leaves the brows unmarred by those corrugations known as frowns. Yet
his thoughts were far from philosophic. Indeed, his soul was in mad
turmoil. He could have thrown his arms toward the blue sky and cursed
aloud the fates that had set this new tangle at his feet. He longed for
the jungles and some mad beast to vent his wrath upon. But he gave no
sign. He had returned with a purpose as hard and grim as iron; and no
obstacle, less powerful than death, should divert or control him.
Abduction? Let the public believe what it might; he held the key to the
mystery. She was afraid, and had taken flight. So be it.

"I say, Ted," called out the artist, "what did you mean by saying that you
were a Dutchman?"

Courtlandt paused so that Abbott might catch up to him. "I said that I was
a Dutchman?"

"Yes. And it has just occurred to me that you meant something."

"Oh, yes. You were talking of Da Toscana? Let's call her Harrigan. It will
save time, and no one will know to whom we refer. You said she was Irish,
and that when she said a thing she meant it. My boy, the Irish are
notorious for claiming that. They often say it before they see clearly.
Now, we Dutchmen,--it takes a long time for us to make up our minds, but
when we do, something has got to bend or break."

"You don't mean to say that you are going to settle down and get
married?"

"I'm not going to settle down and get married, if that will ease your mind
any."

"Man, I was hoping!"

"Three meals a day in the same house, with the same woman, never appealed
to me."

"What do you want, one for each meal?"

"There's the dusky princess peeking out again. The truth is, Abby, if I
could hide myself for three or four years, long enough for people to
forget me, I might reconsider. But it should be under another name. They
envy us millionaires. Why, we are the lonesomest duffers going. We
distrust every one; we fly when a woman approaches; we become monomaniacs;
one thing obsesses us, everybody is after our money. We want friends, we
want wives, but we want them to be attracted to us and not to our
money-bags. Oh, pshaw! What plans hav