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,” Courtlandt added. “I engineered a musical comedy once.”