The Lure of the Mask | Page 2

made he was in the
upper hall, taking the stairs two at a bound. He ran out into the night,
bareheaded. Up the street he saw a flying shadow. Plainly she had
anticipated his impulse and the curiosity behind it. Even as he gave
chase the shadow melted in the fog, as ice melts in running waters, as
flame dissolves in sunshine. She was gone. He cupped his ear with his
hand; in vain, there came no sound as of pattering feet; there was
nothing but fog and silence.
"Well, if this doesn't beat the Dutch!" he murmured.
He laughed disappointedly. It did not matter that he was three and
thirty; he still retained youth enough to feel chagrined at such a trivial
defeat. Here had been something like a genuine adventure, and it had
slipped like water through his clumsy fingers.
"Deuce take the fog! But for that I'd have caught her."
But reason promptly asked him what he should have done had he
caught the singer. Yes, supposing he had, what excuse would he have
had to offer? Denial on her part would have been simple, and righteous
indignation at being accosted on the street simpler still. He had not seen
her face, and doubtless she was aware of this fact. Thus, she would
have had all the weapons for defense and he not one for attack. But
though reason argued well, it did not dislodge his longing. He would
have been perfectly happy to have braved her indignation for a single

glance at her face. He walked back, lighting his pipe. Who could she be?
What peculiar whimsical freak had sent her singing past his window at
one o'clock of the morning? A grand opera singer, returning home from
a late supper? But he dismissed this opinion even as he advanced it. He
knew something about grand opera singers. They attend late suppers, it
is true, but they ride home in luxurious carriages and never risk their
golden voices in this careless if romantic fashion. And in New York
nobody took the trouble to serenade anybody else, unless paid in
advance and armed with a police permit. As for being a comic-opera
star, he refused to admit the possibility; and he relegated this
well-satisfied constellation to the darks of limbo. He had heard a Voice.
A vast, shadow loomed up in the middle of the street, presently to take
upon itself the solid outlines of a policeman who came lumbering over
to add or subtract his quota of interest in the affair. Hillard wisely
stopped and waited for him, pulling up the collar of his jacket, as he
began to note that there was a winter's tang to the fog.
"Hi, what's all this?" the policeman called out roughly.
"To what do you refer?" Hillard counter-questioned, puffing. He
slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
"I heard a woman singin', that's what!" explained the guardian of the
law.
"So did I."
"Oh, you did, huh?"
"Certainly. It is patent that my ears are as good as yours."
"Huh! See her?"
"For a moment," Hillard admitted.
"Well, we can't have none o' this in the streets. It's disorderly."
"My friend," said Hillard, rather annoyed at the policeman's tone, "you

don't think for an instant that I was directing this operetta?"
"Think? Where's your hat?"
Hillard ran his hand over his head. The policeman had him here. "I did
not bring it out."
"Too warm and summery; huh? It don't look good. I've been watchin'
these parts fer a leddy. They call her Leddy Lightfinger; an' she has
some O' the gents done to a pulp when it comes to liftin' jools an'
trinkets. Somebody fergits to lock the front door, an' she finds it out.
Why did you come out without yer lid?"
"Just forgot it, that's all."
"Which way'd she go?"
"You'll need a map and a search-light. I started to run after her myself.
I heard a voice from my window; I saw a woman; I made for the street;
niente!"
"Huh?"
"Niente, nothing!"
"Oh! I see; Dago. Seems to me now that this woman was singin'
I-taly-an, too." They were nearing the light, and the policeman gazed
intently at the hatless young man. "Why, it's Mr. Hillard! I'm surprised.
Well, well! Some day I'll run in a bunch o' these chorus leddies, jes' fer
a lesson. They git lively at the restaurants over on Broadway, an' thin
they raise the dead with their singin', which, often as not, is anythin' but
singin'. An' here it is, after one."
"But this was not a chorus lady," replied Hillard, thoughtfully reaching
into his vest for a cigar.
"Sure, an' how do you know?" with renewed suspicions.
"The lady had a singing voice."

"Huh! They all think alike about