“Better turn the job over to Courtlandt, then. You’re in the light-weight class, and Courtlandt is the best amateur for his weight I ever saw.”
“What, boxes?”
“A tough ’un. I had a corporal who beat any one in Northern India. Courtlandt put on the gloves with him and had him begging in the third round.”
“I never knew that before. He’s as full of surprises as a rummage bag.”
Courtlandt walked up the street leisurely, idly pausing now and then before the shop-windows. Apparently he had neither object nor destination; yet his mind was busy, so busy in fact that he looked at the various curios without truly seeing them at all. A delicate situation, which needed the lightest handling, confronted him. He must wait for an overt act, then he might proceed as he pleased. How really helpless he was! He could not force her hand because she held all the cards and he none. Yet he was determined this time to play the game to the end, even if the task was equal to all those of Hercules rolled into one, and none of the gods on his side.
At the hotel he asked for his mail, and was given a formidable packet which, with a sigh of discontent, he slipped into a pocket, strolled out into the garden by the water, and sat down to read. To his surprise there was a note, without stamp or postmark. He opened it, mildly curious to learn who it was that had discovered his presence in Bellaggio so quickly. The envelope contained nothing more than a neatly folded bank-note for one hundred francs. He eyed it stupidly. What might this mean? He unfolded it and smoothed it out across his knee, and the haze of puzzlement drifted away. Three bars from La Bohème. He laughed. So the little lady of the Taverne Royale was in Bellaggio!