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The duke touched her arm to convey that this was not the moment in which to betray her temper. "I am Edward Courtlandt." "The devil!" mimicked the diva. She and the duke heard a chuckle. "I beg your pardon again, Madame." "Well, what is it you wish?" amiably. The duke looked at her perplexedly. It seemed to him that she was always leaving him in the middle of things.
"And more, by hook or crook, I'd have dragged in the other woman by the hair and made her confess." "I do not doubt it, Colonel," responded Courtlandt, with a dry laugh. "And that would really have been the end of the story. The heroine of this rambling tale would then have been absolutely certain of collusion between the two."
The distance up Courtlandt street, and down Broadway to the house of the elder Pownal, which was near the Battery, was short, and therefore even had the carriage proceeded more leisurely, and the Recluse been disposed to observation, he could have seen but little, and that in an unsatisfactory manner.
It was the act of a contemptible cad. And I tell you here and now. A cad!" The Barone was Italian. He had sought Abbott with the best intentions; to apologize abjectly, distasteful though it might be to his hot blood. Instead, he struck Abbott across the mouth, and the latter promptly knocked him down. Courtlandt knocked on the studio door. "Come in."
"You'll find the claret and champagne punches in the hall," suggested Courtlandt. "Not for mine! Run away and dance." "Good-by, then." Courtlandt vanished. "There's a fine chap. Edward Courtlandt, the American millionaire." It was not possible for Harrigan to omit this awe-compelling elaboration. "Edward Courtlandt." The stranger stretched his legs. "I have heard of him. Something of a hunter."
He addressed most of this to the back of her head, for she was already walking toward the villa into which she disappeared with the proud air of some queen of tragedy. She was a capital actress. A heavy hand fell upon Courtlandt's shoulder. He was irresistibly drawn right about face. "Now, then, Mr. Courtlandt," said Harrigan, his eyes blue and cold as ice, "perhaps you will explain?"
They were substituting another singer. "Call up the Herald," suggested Courtlandt. Abbott did so. And he had to answer innumerable questions, questions which worked him into a fine rage: who was he, where did he live, what did he know, how long had he been in Paris, and could he prove that he had arrived that morning?
"Mr. Courtlandt's?" she answered, promptly supplying the name. "In Thirty-fourth Street, just east of the avenue." "To be sure; I know it well," answered the doctor. "A most refined and aristocratic neighborhood it is, and I'm sure I must have met Mr. Courtlandt at the Union Club. He is near kin, I think, to the Van Cortlandts, of Croton, is he not?"
It was Margaret's Saturday, so Hanny ran around in the morning to tell her of the new arrangements. They were to meet the Whitneys at Courtlandt Street, so they had an early lunch, and started in good time. Hanny was so interested in everything that she was a charming companion. It seemed queer that Mr. Whitney could remember when there was no railroad, and you travelled mostly by stage-coaches.
Courtlandt pulled off the gloves and got into his clothes. "You may add, sir, that I shall never trouble her again with my unwelcome attentions. I leave for Milan in the morning." Courtlandt left the field of victory without further comment. "Well, what do you think of that?" mused Harrigan, as he stooped over to gather up the gloves. "Any one would say that he was the injured party.
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