Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 223, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 September 1914 — The PLACE OF HONEYMOONS [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The PLACE OF HONEYMOONS

MOONS by HAROLD MAC GRATH

Pictures & i I C.D. 1 J mpm

SYNOPSIS. Eleanors de Toscana was singring In Paris, which, perhaps, accounted for Edward Courtlandt’s appearance there. Multimillionaire, he wandered about where fancy dictated. He might be In Paris one day and Kamchatka the next. Following the opera he goes to a case and Is accosted by a pretty young woman. She gives him the address of Flora Desimone, vocal rival of Toscana, and Flora gives him the address of Eleanora, whom he is determined to see. Courtlandt enters Eleanora's apartments. She orders him out and shoots at him. CHAPTER IV. Captive or Ruhaway. At the age of twenty-elx Donald Abbott had become a prosperous and distinguished painter In water colors. His work was individual, and at the same time it was delicate and charming. • One saw hie Italian landscapes as through a filmy gauze; the almond blossoms of Sicily, the rose-laden walls of Florence, the vineyards of Chianti, the Doppy-glowing Campagna out of Rome. His Italian lakes had brought him fame. He knew very little of the grind and hunger that attended the careers of his whilom associates. His father had left him some valuable patents —wash-tubs, carpet-cleaners and other labor-saving devices —and the royalties from these were quite sufficient to' keep him pleasantly housed. His earnings (not inconsiderable, for tourists found much to admire in both the pictures and the artist) he spent in gratifying his mild extravagances. Sp there were no lines in his handsome, boyish, beardless face; and his eyes were unusually clear and happy. Perhaps once or twice, since his majority, he had returned to America to prove that he was not an expatriate, though certainly he was one, the only tie existing between him and his native land being the bankers who regularly honored his drafts. And who shall condemn him for preferring Italy to the desolate center of New York state, where good servants and good weather are as rare as are flawless emeralds ? Half after three, oh Wednesday afternoon, Abbott stared moodily at the weather-tarnished group by Dalou in the Luxembourg gardens—the Triumph of Silenus. His gaze was deceptive, for the rollicking old bibulous scoundrel had not stirred his criticaf sense nor impressed the delicate films of thought. He was looking through the bronze, into the far-away things. He had arrived early that morning, all ! the way from Como, to find a thunderbolt driven in at hie feet Across his knees fluttered an open newspaper, the Paris editiqn of the New York Herald. All that kept it from blowing away was the tense if sprawling fingers of his right hand; hlB left hung limply at his side. It was not possible. Such things did not happen these unromantic days to musical celebrities. She had written that on Monday night she would sing in La Bobeme and on Wednesday, Faust. She bad since vanished, vanished as completely as though she had taken wings and flown away. It was unreal. She had left the apartment in the Avenue de Wagram on Saturday afternoon, and nothing had,been seen or heard of her since. At thq last moment they had had to find a substitute for her part in the Puccini opera. The maid testified that her mistress had gone on an errand of mercy. She had not mentioned where, but she had said that she would return in time to dress for dinner, which proved conclusively that something out of the ordinary had befallen her. The automobile that had carried her away had not been her own, and the chauffeur was unknown. None of the directors at the opera had been notified of any change in the singer’s plans. She had disappeared, and they were deeply concerned. Singers were .generally erratic, of sudden indispositions, unaccountable whims; but the Signorina da Toscana was one in a thousand. She never broke an engagement If she was ill she said so at once; she never left them In doubt until the last moment. Indecision was not one of her characteristics. She was as reliable as the spn. If the directors did not hear' definitely from her by noon today, they would have to find another Marguerite. The police began to move, and they stirred up some curious bits of information. A man had tried to bribe 'the singer’s chauffeur, while she was singing at the Austrian ambassador’s. The chauffeur was able to describe the stranger with some accuracy. Then came the bewildering episode in the apartment; the pistol-shot, the flight of Jibe man, the astonished concierge to whom the beautiful American would offer no explanations. The man (who . tallied with the description given by

the chauffeur) h?.d obtained entrance under false representations. He claimed to be an emissary with important instructions from the opera. There was nothing unusual in this; messengers came at all hours, and seldom the same one twice; so the. concierge’s suspicions had not been aroused. Another item. A tall hand-" some Italian had called at eleven o’clock Saturday morning, but the eignorina had sent down word that she could not see him. The maid recalled that her mistress had intended that night with the Ita..an gentleman. His name she did not know, having been with the signorina but two weeks. .Celeste Fournier, the celebrated young pianist . and composer, who shared the apartment with the missing prima donna, stated that she hadn’t the slightest idea where her friend was. She was certain that misfortune hid overtaken her in some inexplicable manner. To implicate the Italian was out of the question. He was well-known to them both. He had arrived again at seven, Saturday, and was very much surprised that the signorina had not yet returned. He had waited till nine, when he left, greatly disappointed. He was the Barone di Mopte-Verdi in Calabria, formerly 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 anyone else. And here was J 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 "(vith 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 wh’o 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 Ms 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 f»m ? 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. v_ “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? u 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,” Courtlahdt added. “I engineered a musical comedy once.” “You do not know anything about her,” cried Abbott hotly/ "That’s true enough.” Courtlandt finished the article, folded the paper and returned it, and began digging in the path with his cane. . “But what I want to know is, who the devil is this mysterious blond stranger?" Abbott flourished the paper again. “I tell you, it’s no advertising dodge. She’s been abducted. The blond!” Courtlandt ceased boring into the earth. “The story s.ays that she refused to explain this blond chap’s presence in her room. What do you make of that?” “Perhapß you think the fellow was her press agent?" was the retort. “Lord, no! But it proves that she knew him, that she did not want the police to find him. At least, not at that moment. Who’s the Italian V* suddenly. “I can vouch for him. He is a gentleman,' honorable as the day is long, even if he is hot-headed at times. Count him out of it. It’s this unknown, I tell you. Revenge for some imagined slight. It’s, as plain as the nose on your face.” “How long have you' known her?” asked Courtlandt .presently. “About two years. She’s the gem of. the whole lot. Gentle, kindly, untoubhed by flattery. . . . Why, you must have seen and heard her!” “I have.” .Courtlandt stared into the hole he had dug. “Voice like anangel’s. With a face like Bellini’s donna; and Irish all over. But for all that, you will find that her disappearance will turn out to be a diya’s whim. Hang it, Suds, I’ve had some experience with singers." ' ' > “You are a blockhead!” exploded the younger man.

“All right, I am.” Courtlandt laughed. “Come on over to the Souiflet and have a drink with ms.” “I’m not drinking today,” tersely. “There’s too much ahead for me to do.” i “Going to start out to find her? Oh, Sir Galahad!” ironically. “Abby, you used to be a sport. I’ll wager a hundred against a bottle of pop that tomorrow or next day she'll turn up serenely, with a statement Chat she was indisposed, sorry not to have notified the directors, and all that. They do it repeatedly every seaspn.” “But an errand of mercy, the strange automobile which cannot be found? The engagement to dine with the baron? Celeste Fournier’s statement? You can’t get around these things. I tell you, Nora isn’t that kind. She’s too big in heart and mind to stoop to any such devices,” vehemently. * “Nora! That looks pretty serious, Abby. You haven't gone and made a fool of yourself, have you?” “What do you call making a fool of myself?” truculently. “You aren’t a suitor, are you? An accepted suitor?” unruffled, rather kindly. v “No, but I would to heaven that I were!” Abbott jammed the newspaper into his pocket and slung the stool over his arm. “Come on over to the studio until I get some money.” “You are really going to start a search?” “I really am. I’d rftart one Just as quickly for you, if I heard that you had vanished under mysterious circumstances.” “I believe you honestly would.” “You are an old misanthrope. I hope some woman puts the book into you some day. Where did you pick up the grouch? Some of your dusky princesses give you the go-by?” ’Tou, too*, Abby?” r “Oh, rot! Of course I never believed any of that twaddle. Only, I’ve got a sore head today. If you knew Nora’ as well as I do, you’d understand.” 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 |ign. 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 frere 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 Bald ehe 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 quarried, if that will eaee your mind any.” “Man, I was hoping!” “Three meals a day in the same house, , with the same woman, never appealed to me.” 1 “What do you want, one for each meal?” (TO BE CONTINUED.)