Cambia was greatly disturbed by the sudden departure of the Montjoys. She shut herself up and refused all visitors. Was the great-hearted yet stern Cambia ill or distressed? The maid did not know.

She had called for the "Figaro," to see the passenger list of the steamer. The names were there; the steamer had sailed. And then as she sat gazing upon the sheet another caught her attention in an adjoining column, "Gaspard Levigne." It was in the body of an advertisement which read:

"Reward—A liberal reward will be paid for particulars of the death of Gaspard Levigne, which, it is said, occurred recently in Paris. Additional reward will be paid for the address of the present owner of the Stradivarius violin lately owned by the said Gaspard Levigne and the undersigned will buy said violin at full value, if for sale."

Following this was a long and minute description of the instrument. The advertisement was signed by Louis Levigne, Breslau, Silesia.

Cambia read and reread this notice with pale face and gave herself to reflection. She threw off the weight of the old troubles which had swarmed over her again and prepared for action. Three hours later she was on her way to Berlin; the next day found her in Breslau. A few moments later and she was entering the house of the advertiser.

In a dark, old-fashioned living-room, a slender, gray-haired man came forward rather cautiously to meet her. She knew his face despite the changes of nearly thirty years; he was the only brother of her husband and one of her chief persecutors in those unhappy days. It was not strange that in this tall, queenlike woman, trained to face great audiences without embarrassment, he should fail to recognize the shy and lonely little American who had invaded the family circle. He bowed, unconsciously feeling the influence of her fine presence and commanding eyes.

"You, I suppose, are Louis Levigne, who advertised recently for information of Gaspard Levigne?" she said.

"Yes, madame; my brother was the unfortunate Gaspard. We think him dead. Know you anything of him?"

"I knew him years ago; I was then a singer and he was my accompanist. Recently he died." The face of the man lighted up with a strange gleam. She regarded him curiously and continued: "Died poor and friendless."

"Ah, indeed! He should have communicated with us; he was not poor and would not have been friendless."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, madame, the new age is progressive. Some lands we had in northern Silesia, worthless for 200 years, have developed iron and a company has purchased." The woman smiled sadly.

"Too late," she said, "for poor Gaspard. This is why you have advertised?"

"Yes, madame. There can be no settlement until we have proofs of Gaspard's death."

"You are the only heir aside from Gaspard?"

"Yes, madame." The count grew restless under these questions, but circumstances compelled courtesy to this visitor.

"Excuse my interest, Count, but Gaspard was my friend and I knew of his affairs. Did he not leave heirs?" The man replied with gesture in which was mingled every shade of careless contempt that could be expressed.

"There was a woman—a plaything of Gaspard's calling herself his wife—but they parted nearly thirty years ago. He humored her and then sent her back where she came from—America, I believe."

"I am more than ever interested, Count. Gaspard did not impress me as vicious."

"Oh, well, follies of youth, call them. Gaspard was wild; he first left here because of a mock-marriage escapade; when two years after he came back with this little doll we supposed it was another case; at any rate, Gaspard was once drunk enough to boast that she could never prove the marriage." Cambia could restrain herself only with desperate efforts. These were knife blows.

"Were there no heirs?"

"I have never heard. It matters little here. But, madame, you know of Gaspard's death; can you not give me the facts so that I may obtain proofs?" She looked at him steadily.

"I saw him die."

"Ah, that simplifies it all," said the count, pleasantly. "Will you be kind enough to go before an attesting officer and complete the proofs? You have answered the advertisement—do I insult you by speaking of reward?" He looked critically at her simple but elegant attire and hesitated.

"No. But I do not care for money. I will furnish positive proof of the death of Gaspard Levigne for the violin mentioned in the advertisement." The man was now much astounded.

"But madame, it is an heirloom; that is why I have advertised for it."

"Then get it. And let me receive it direct from the hands of the present holder or I shall not furnish the proofs." Some doubt of the woman's sanity flashed over the count.

"I have already explained, madame, that it is an heirloom——"

"And I have shown you that I do not consider that as important."

"But of what use can it possibly be to you? There are other Cremonas I will buy—"

"I want this one because it is the violin of Gaspard Levigne, and he was my husband."

The count nearly leaped from the floor.

"When did he marry you, madame?"

"That is a long story; but he did; we were bohemians in Paris. I am heir to his interests in these mines, but I care little for that—very little. I am independent. My husband's violin is my one wish now." The realization of how completely he had been trapped betrayed the forced courtesy of the man.

"You married him. I presume you ascertained that the American wife was dead?"

"You have informed me that the American was not his wife."

"But she was, and if she is living to-day madame's claims are very slender."

"You speak positively!"

"I do. I saw the proofs. We should not have given the girl any recognition without them, knowing Gaspard's former escapade."

"Then," said the woman, her face lighting up with a sudden joy, and growing stern again instantly, "then you lied just now, you cowardly hound."

"Madame." The count had retreated behind a chair and looked anxiously at the bell, but she was in the way.

"You lied, sir, I say. I am the wife, and now the widow, of Gaspard Levigne, but not a second wife. I am that 'plaything,' as you called her, the American, armed now with a knowledge of my rights and your treachery. You may well shiver and grow pale, sir; I am no longer the trembling child you terrified with brutality, but a woman who could buy your family with its mines thrown in, and not suffer because of the bad investment. From this room, upon the information you have given, I go to put my case in the hands of lawyers and establish my claim. It is not share and share in this country; my husband was the first born, and I am his heir!"

"My God!"

"It is too late to call upon God; He is on my side now! I came to you, sir, a woman to be loved, not a pauper. My father was more than a prince in his country. His slaves were numbered by the hundreds, and his lands would have sufficed for a dozen of your counts. I was crushed and my life was ruined, and my husband turned against me. But he repented—he repented. There was no war between Gaspard and me when he died." The man looked on and believed her.

"Madame," he said, humbly, "has been wronged. For myself, it matters little, this new turn of affairs, but I have others." She had been looking beyond him into space.

"And yet," she said, "it is the violin I would have. It was the violin that first spoke our love; it is a part of me; I would give my fortune to possess it again." He was looking anxiously at her, not comprehending this passion, but hoping much from it.

"And how much will you give?"

"I will give the mines and release all claims against you and your father's estate."

"Alas, madame, I can give you the name of the holder of that violin but not the violin itself. You can make terms with him, and I will pay whatever price is demanded."

"How will I know you are not deceiving me?"

"Madame is harsh, but she will be convinced if she knows the handwriting of her—husband."

"It is agreed," she said, struggling to keep down her excitement. Count Levigne reached the coveted bell and in a few minutes secured a notary, who drew up a formal agreement between the two parties. Cambia then gave an affidavit setting forth the death of Gaspard Levigne in proper form for use in court. Count Levigne took from his desk an envelope.

"You have read my advertisement, madame. It was based on this:

"Count L. Levigne, Breslau: When you receive this I will be dead. Make no effort to trace me; it will be useless; my present name is an assumed one. We have been enemies many years, but everything changes in the presence of death, and I do not begrudge you the pleasure of knowing that your brother is beyond trouble and want forever and the title is yours. The Cremona, to which I have clung even when honor was gone, I have given to a young American named Morgan, who has made my life happier in its winter than it was in its summer.

"Gaspard Levigne."

The count watched the reader curiously as she examined the letter. Her face was white, but her hand did not tremble as she handed back the letter.

"It is well," she said. "I am satisfied. Good morning, gentlemen."

In Paris, Cambia's mind was soon made up. She privately arranged for an indefinite absence, and one day she disappeared. It was the sensation of the hour; the newspapers got hold of it, and all Paris wondered.

There had always been a mystery in the life of Cambia. No man had ever invaded it beyond the day when she put herself in the hands of a manager and laid the foundation for her world-wide success upon the lyric stage.

And then Paris forgot; and only the circle of her friends watched and waited.

Meanwhile the swift steamer had carried Mrs. Gaspard Levigne across the Atlantic and she had begun that journey into the south-land, once the dream of her youth—the going back to father and to friends!

The swift train carried her by towns and villages gorgeous with new paint and through cities black with the smoke of factories. The negroes about the stations were not of the old life, and the rushing, curt and slangy young men who came and went upon the train belonged to a new age.

The farms, with faded and dingy houses, poor fences, and uncared-for fields and hedges, swept past like some bad dream. All was different; not thirty years but a century had rolled its changes over the land since her girlhood.

And then came the alighting. Here was the city, different and yet the same. But where was the great family carriage, with folding steps and noble bays, the driver in livery, the footman to hold the door? Where were father and friends? No human being came to greet her.

She went to the hotel, locked herself in her room, and then Cambia gave way for the first time in a generation to tears.

But she was eminently a practical woman. She had not come to America to weep. The emotion soon passed. At her request a file of recent papers was laid before her, and she went through them carefully. She found that which she had not looked for.