“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 hound!”
Courtlandt ceased boring into the earth. “The story says that she refused to explain this blond chap’s presence in her room. What do you make of that?”
“Perhaps 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?” 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, untouched by flattery.... Why, you must have seen and heard her!”
“I have.” Courtlandt stared into the hole he had dug. “Voice like an angel’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 diva’s whim. Hang it, Suds, I’ve had some experience with singers.”