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?”