The Lure of the Mask | Page 3

that. But mebbe she wasn't bad at the
business. Annyhow...."
"It was rather out of time and place, eh?" helpfully.
"That's about the size of it. This Leddy Lightfinger is a case. She has us
all thinkin' on our nights off. Clever an' edjicated, an' jabbers in half a
dozen tongues. It's a thousan' to the man who jugs her. But she don't
sing; at least, they ain't any report to that effect. Perhaps your leddy
was jes' larkin' a bit. But it's got to be stopped."
Hillard passed over the cigar, and the policeman bit off the end,
nodding with approval at such foresight. The young man then proffered
the coal of his pipe and the policeman took his light therefrom,
realizing that after such a peace-offering there was nothing for him to
do but move on. Yet on dismal lonesome nights, like this one, it is a
godsend and a comfort to hear one's own voice against the darkness. So
he lingered.
"Didn't get a peep at her face?"
"Not a single feature. The light was behind her." Hillard tapped one toe
and then the other.
"An' how was she dressed?"
"In fog, for all I could see."
"On the level now, didn't you know who she was?" The policeman gave
Hillard a sly dig in the ribs with his club.
"On my word!"
"Some swell, mebbe."
"Undoubtedly a lady. That's why it looks odd, why it brought me into
the street. She sang in classic Italian. And what's more, for the privilege
of hearing that voice again, I should not mind sitting on this cold curb
till the milkman comes around in the morning."

"That wouldn't be fer long," laughed the policeman, taking out his
watch and holding it close to the end of his cigar. "Twenty minutes
after one. Well, I must be gittin' back to me beat. An' you'd better be
goin' in; it's cold. Good night."
"Good night," Hillard responded cheerfully.
"Say, what's I-taly-an fer good night?" still reluctant to go on.
"Buona notte."
"Bony notty; huh, sounds like Chinese fer rheumatism. Been to Italy?"
"I was born there," patiently.
"No! Why, you're no Dago!"
"Not so much as an eyelash. The stork happened to drop the basket
there, that's all."
"Ha! I see. Well, Ameriky is good enough fer me an' mine,"
complacently.
"I dare say!"
"An' if this stogy continues t' behave, we'll say no more about the
vanishin' leddy." And with this the policeman strolled off into the fog,
his suspicions in nowise removed. He knew many rich young bachelors
like Hillard. If it wasn't a chorus lady, it was a prima donna, which was
not far in these degenerate days from being the same thing.
Hillard regained his room and leaned with his back to the radiator. He
had an idea. It was rather green and salad, but as soon as his hands were
warm he determined to put this idea into immediate use. The Voice had
stirred him deeply, stirred him with the longing to hear it again, to see
the singer's face, to learn what extraordinary impulse had loosed the
song. Perhaps it was his unspoken loneliness striving to call out against
this self-imposed isolation; for he was secretly lonely, as all bachelors
must be who have passed the Rubicon of thirty. He made no analysis of

this new desire, or rather this old desire, newly awakened. He embraced
it gratefully. Such is the mystery and power of the human voice: this
one, passing casually under his window, had awakened him.
Never the winter came with its weary round of rain and fog and snow
that his heart and mind did not fly over the tideless southern sea to the
land of his birth if not of his blood. Sorrento, that jewel of the ruddy
clifts! There was fog outside his window, and yet how easy it was to
picture the turquoise bay of Naples shimmering in the morning light!
There was Naples itself, like a string of its own pink coral, lying
crescent-wise on the distant strand; there were the snowcaps fading on
the far horizon; the bronzed fishermen and their wives, a sheer two
hundred feet below him, pulling in their glistening nets; the amethyst
isles of Capri and Ischia eternally hanging midway between the blue of
the sky and the blue of the sea; and there, towering menacingly above
all this melting beauty, the dark, grim pipe of Vulcan. How easily,
indeed, he could see all these things!
With a quick gesture of both hands, Latin, always Latin, he crossed the
room to a small writing-desk, turned on the lights and sat down. He
smiled as he took up the pen to begin his composition. Not one chance
in a thousand. And after several attempts he realized