The Stolen Singer | Page 4

reminiscent smile gave place to an
expression of surprise, as the singer became conscious of a deeper
shadow falling directly in front of her. She glanced up quickly, and
found herself looking into the face of a man whose gimlet-like gaze
was directed upon herself.
Quickly as she rose, she could not turn into the path before the
gentleman, hat in hand, with a deep bow and clearly enunciated words,
arrested her impulse to flight.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle, I am a stranger in the city. I was directed this
way to Van Cortlandt Hall, but I find I am in error, intrigued--in
confusion. Would mademoiselle be so good as to direct me?"
The tones had a foreign accent. There was something, also, in their
bland impertinence which put Miss Redmond on her guard. He was a

good-sized, blond person, carefully dressed, and at least appeared like a
gentleman.
Miss Redmond looked into the smooth, neat countenance, upon which
no record either of experience or of thought was engraved, and decided
fleetingly that he was lying. She judged him capable of picking up
acquaintances on the street, but thought that more originality might be
expected of him.
Suddenly she wished that she had returned sooner to her car, for though
she was of an adventurous nature, her bravery was not of the physical
order; and she disliked to have the appearance of unconventionality.
After the first minute she was not so much afraid as annoyed. Her voice
became frigid, though her dignity was somewhat damaged by the fact
that she bungled in giving the desired information.
"I think monsieur will find Van Cortlandt Hall in the College grounds
two blocks south--no, north--of the gateway yonder, at the upper end of
this walk."
"Ah, mademoiselle is but too kind!" He bowed deeply again, hat still in
hand. "I thank you profoundly. And may I say, also, that this wonderful
picture--" here he spread eloquent hands toward the half-quiescent city
whose thousand eyes glimmered over the lower distance--"this
panorama of occidental life, makes a peculiar appeal to the
imagination?"
The springs of emotion, touched potently as they had been by the
surging recollections of the last half-hour, were faintly stirred again in
Miss Redmond's heart by the stranger's grandiloquent words.
Unconsciously her features relaxed, though she did not reply.
"Again I pray mademoiselle to pardon me, but only a moment past I
heard the song--the song that might be the sigh of all the daughters of
Italy. Ah, Mademoiselle, it is wonderful! But here in this so fresh
country, this youthful, boisterous, too prosperous country, that song is
like--like--like Arabian spices in a kitchen. Is it not so?"

Miss Redmond was moving up the steps toward the entrance, hesitating
between the desire to snub her interlocutor and to avoid the appearance
of fright. The man, meanwhile, moved easily beside her, courteously
distant, discourteously insistent in his prattle. But the motor-car was
now not far away.
The stranger looked appealingly at her, seemingly sure of a humorous
answering look to his pleasantry. It was not wholly denied. She yielded
to a touch of amusement with a cool smile, and hastened her steps. The
man kept pace without effort. Luckily, the car stood only a few feet
away, with Renaud, or rather Hand, at the curb, holding open the door.
A vague bow and a lifting of the hat, and apparently the stranger went
the other way. She felt a foolish relief, and at the same instant noted
with surprise that the cover of her car had been raised.
"Why did you raise the top?"
"It appeared to me, Mademoiselle, that it was likely to rain."
"Put it down again. It will not rain," Miss Redmond was saying, when,
from sidelong eyes, she saw that the stranger had not turned in the other
direction, after all, but was almost in her tracks, as though he were
stalking game. With foot on the step she said sharply, but in a low
voice, "To the Plaza quickly," then immediately added, with a
characteristic practical turn: "But don't get yourself arrested for
speeding."
"No, Mademoiselle, with this car I can make--" Even as the chauffeur
replied, Miss Redmond's sharpened senses detected a passage of
glances between him and the stranger, now close behind her.
She sprang into the tonneau and seized the door, but not before the man
had caught at it with a stronger hold, and stepped in close after her. The
chauffeur was in his seat, the car was moving slowly, now faster and
faster. Suddenly the bland countenance slid very near her own, while
firm hands against her shoulders crowded her into the farther corner of
the tonneau.

"O Renaud--Hand!" she cried, but the driver made no sign. "Help,
help!" she shrieked, but the cry was instantly choked into