There is a heavenly terrace, flanked by marvelous trees. To the left, far down below, is a curving, dark-shaded, turquoise body of water called Lecco; to the right there lies the queen of lakes, the crown of Italy, a corn-flower sapphire known as Como. Over and about it—this terrace—poets have raved and tousled their neglected locks in vain to find the perfect phrasing; novelists have come and gone and have carried away peace and inspiration; and painters have painted it from a thousand points of view, and perhaps are painting it from another thousand this very minute. It is the Place of Honeymoons. Rich lovers come and idle there; and lovers of modest means rush up to it and down from it to catch the next steamer to Menaggio. Eros was not born in Greece: of all barren mountains, unstirring, Hymettus, or Olympus, or whatever they called it in the days of the junketing gods, is completest. No; Venus went a-touring and abode a while upon this same gracious spot, once dear to Pliny the younger.

Between the blessed ledge and the towering mountains over the way, rolls a small valley, caressed on either side by the lakes. There are flower gardens, from which in summer rises the spicy perfume of lavender; there are rows upon rows of grape-vines, terraced downward; there are purple figs and white and ruby mulberries. Around and about, rising sheer from the waters, wherever the eye may rove, heaven-touching, salmon-tinted mountains abound, with scarfs of filmy cloud aslant their rugged profiles, and beauty-patches of snow. And everywhere the dark and brooding cypress, the copper beech, the green pine accentuate the pink and blue and white stucco of the villas, the rich and the humble.

Behind the terrace is a promontory, three or four hundred feet above the waters. Upon the crest is a cultivated forest of all known evergreens. There are ten miles of cool and fragrant paths, well trodden by the devoteÉs of Eros. The call of love is heard here; the echoes to-day reverberate with the impassioned declarations of yesterday. The Englishman’s reserve melts, the American forgets his coupons, the German puts his arm around the robust waist of his frau or frÄulein. (This is nothing for him; he does it unconcernedly up and down the great urban highways of the world.)

Again, between the terrace ledge and the forest lies a square of velvet green, abounding in four-leaf clover. Buona fortuna! In the center there is a fountain. The water tinkles in drops. One hears its soft music at all times. Along the terrace parapet are tea-tables; a monster oak protects one from the sun. If one (or two) lingers over tea and cakes, one may witness the fiery lances of the setting sun burn across one arm of water while the silver spars of the rising moon shimmer across the other. Nature is whole-souled here; she gives often and freely and all she has.

Seated on one of the rustic benches, his white tennis shoes resting against the lower iron of the railing, a Bavarian dachel snoozing comfortably across his knees, was a man of fifty. He was broad of shoulder, deep of chest, and clean-shaven. He had laid aside his Panama hat, and his hair was clipped closely, and was pleasantly and honorably sprinkled with gray. His face was broad and tanned; the nose was tilted, and the wide mouth was both kindly and humorous. One knew, from the tint of his blue eyes and the quirk of his lips, that when he spoke there would be a bit of brogue. He was James Harrigan, one time celebrated in the ring for his gameness, his squareness, his endurance; “Battling Jimmie” Harrigan, who, when he encountered his first knock-out, retired from the ring. He had to his credit sixty-one battles, of which he had easily won forty. He had been outpointed in some and had broken even in others; but only once had he been “railroaded into dreamland,” to use the parlance of the game. That was enough. He understood. Youth would be served, and he was no longer young. He had, unlike the many in his peculiar service, lived cleanly and with wisdom and foresight: he had saved both his money and his health. To-day he was at peace with the world, with three sound appetites the day and the wherewithal to gratify them.

True, he often dreamed of the old days, the roped square, the lights, the haze of tobacco smoke, the white patches surrounding, all of a certain expectant tilt, the reporters scribbling on the deal tables under the very posts, the cheers as he took his corner and scraped his shoes in the powdered resin, the padded gloves thrown down in the center of the canvas which was already scarred and soiled by the preliminaries. But never, never again; if only for the little woman’s sake. Only when the game was done did he learn with what terror and dread she had waited for his return on fighting nights.

To-day “Battling Jimmie” was forgotten by the public, and he was happy in the seclusion of this forgetfulness. A new and strange career had opened up before him: he was the father of the most beautiful prima donna in the operatic world, and, difficult as the task was, he did his best to live up to it. It was hard not to offer to shake hands when he was presented to a princess or a duchess; it was hard to remember when to change the studs in his shirt; and a white cravat was the terror of his nights, for his fingers, broad and stubby and powerful, had not been trained to the delicate task of tying a bow-knot. By a judicious blow in that spot where the ribs divaricate he could right well tie his adversary into a bow-knot, but this string of white lawn was a most damnable thing. Still, the puttering of the two women, their daily concern over his deportment, was bringing him into conformity with social usages. That he naturally despised the articles of such a soulless faith was evident in his constant inclination to play hooky. One thing he rebelled against openly, and with such firmness that the women did not press him too strongly for fear of a general revolt. On no occasion, however impressive, would he wear a silk hat. Christmas and birthdays invariably called forth the gift of a silk hat, for the women trusted that they could overcome resistance by persistence. He never said anything, but it was noticed that the hotel porter, or the gardener, or whatever masculine head (save his own) was available, came forth resplendent on feast-days and Sundays.

Leaning back in an iron chair, with his shoulders resting against the oak, was another man, altogether a different type. He was frowning over the pages of Bagot’s Italian Lakes, and he wasn’t making much headway. He was Italian to the core, for all that he aped the English style and manner. He could speak the tongue with fluency, but he stumbled and faltered miserably over the soundless type. His clothes had the Piccadilly cut, and his mustache, erstwhile waxed and militant, was cropped at the corners, thoroughly insular. He was thirty, and undeniably handsome.

Near the fountain, on the green, was a third man. He was in the act of folding up an easel and a camp-stool.

The tea-drinkers had gone. It was time for the first bell for dinner. The villa’s omnibus was toiling up the winding road among the grape-vines. Suddenly Harrigan tilted his head sidewise, and the long silken ears of the dachel stirred. The Italian slowly closed his book and permitted his chair to settle on its four legs. The artist stood up from his paintbox. From a window in the villa came a voice; only a lilt of a melody, no words,—half a dozen bars from Martha; but every delightful note went deep into the three masculine hearts. Harrigan smiled and patted the dog. The Italian scowled at the vegetable garden directly below. The artist scowled at the Italian.

“Fritz, Fritz; here, Fritz!”

The dog struggled in Harrigan’s hands and tore himself loose. He went clattering over the path toward the villa and disappeared into the doorway. Nothing could keep him when that voice called. He was as ardent a lover as any, and far more favored.

“Oh, you funny little dog! You merry little dachel! Fritz, mustn’t; let go!” Silence.

The artist knew that she was cuddling the puppy to her heart, and his own grew twisted. He stooped over his materials again and tied the box to the easel and the stool, and shifted them under his arm.

“I’ll be up after dinner, Mr. Harrigan,” he said.

“All right, Abbott.” Harrigan waved his hand pleasantly. He was becoming so used to the unvarying statement that Abbott would be up after dinner, that his reply was by now purely mechanical. “She’s getting her voice back all right; eh?”

“Beautifully! But I really don’t think she ought to sing at the Haines’ villa Sunday.”

“One song won’t hurt her. She’s made up her mind to sing. There’s nothing for us to do but to sit tight. No news from Paris?”

“No.”

“Say, do you know what I think?”

“What?”

“Some one has come across to the police.”

“Paris is not New York, Mr. Harrigan.”

“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a hundred cents to the dollar, my boy, Paris or New York. Why haven’t they moved? They can’t tell me that tow-headed chap’s alibi was on the level. I wish I’d been in Paris. There’d been something doing. And who was he? They refuse to give his name. And I can’t get a word out of Nora. Shuts me up with a bang when I mention it. Throws her nerves all out, she says. I’d like to get my hands on the blackguard.”

“So would I. It’s a puzzle. If he had molested her while she was a captive, you could understand. But he never came near her.”

“Busted his nerve, that’s what.”

“I have my doubts about that. A man who will go that far isn’t subject to any derangement of his nerves. Want me to bring up the checkers?”

“Sure. I’ve got two rubbers hanging over you.”

The artist took the path that led around the villa and thence down by many steps to the village by the waterside, to the cream-tinted cluster of shops and enormous hotels.

The Italian was more fortunate. He was staying at the villa. He rose and sauntered over to Harrigan, who was always a source of interest to him. Study the man as he might, there always remained a profound mystery to his keen Italian mind. Every now and then nature—to prove that while she provided laws for humanity she obeyed none herself—nature produced the prodigy. Ancestry was nothing; habits, intelligence, physical appearance counted for naught. Harrigan was a fine specimen of the physical man, yes; but to be the father of a woman who was as beautiful as the legendary goddesses and who possessed a voice incomparable in the living history of music, here logic, the cold and accurate intruder, found an unlockable door. He liked the ex-prizefighter, so kindly and wholesome; but he also pitied him. Harrigan reminded him of a seal he had once seen in an aquarium tank: out of his element, but merry-eyed and swimming round and round as if determined to please everybody.

“It will be a fine night,” said the Italian, pausing at Harrigan’s bench.

“Every night is fine here, Barone,” replied Harrigan. “Why, they had me up in Marienbad a few weeks ago, and I’m not over it yet. It’s no place for a sick man; only a well man could come out of it alive.”

The Barone laughed. Harrigan had told this tale half a dozen times, but each time the Barone felt called on to laugh. The man was her father.

“Do you know, Mr. Harrigan, Miss Harrigan is not herself? She is—what do you call?—bitter. She laughs, but—ah, I do not know!—it sounds not real.”

“Well, she isn’t over that rumpus in Paris yet.”

“Rumpus?”

“The abduction.”

“Ah, yes! Rumpus is another word for abduction? Yes, yes, I see.”

“No, no! Rumpus is just a mix-up, a row, anything that makes a noise, calls in the police. You can make a rumpus on the piano, over a game of cards, anything.”

The Barone spread his hands. “I comprehend,” hurriedly. He comprehended nothing, but he was too proud to admit it.

“So Nora is not herself; a case of nerves. And to think that you called there at the apartment the very day!”

“Ah, if I had been there the right time!”

“But what puts me down for the count is the action of the fellow. Never showed up; just made her miss two performances.”

“He was afraid. Men who do cowardly things are always afraid.” The Barone spoke with decided accent, but he seldom made a grammatical error. “But sometimes, too, men grow mad at once, and they do things in their madness. Ah, she is so beautiful! She is a nightingale.” The Italian looked down on Como whose broad expanse was crisscrossed by rippled paths made by arriving and departing steamers. “It is not a wonder that some man might want to run away with her.”

Harrigan looked curiously at the other. “Well, it won’t be healthy for any man to try it again.” The father held out his powerful hands for the Barone’s inspection. They called mutely but expressively for the throat of the man who dared. “It’ll never happen again. Her mother and I are not going away from her any more. When she sings in Berlin, I’m going to trail along; when she hits the high note in Paris, I’m lingering near; when she trills in London, I’m hiding in the shadow. And you may put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

“I smoke only cigarettes,” replied the Barone gravely. It had been difficult to follow, this English.

Harrigan said nothing in return. He had given up trying to explain to the Italian the idiomatic style of old Broadway. He got up and brushed his flannels perfunctorily. “Well, I suppose I’ve got to dress for supper,” resentfully. He still called it supper; and, as in the matter of the silk hat, his wife no longer strove to correct him. The evening meal had always been supper, and so it would remain until that time when he would cease to look forward to it.

“Do you go to the dancing at Cadenabbia to-night?”

“Me? I should say not!” Harrigan laughed. “I’d look like a bull in a china-shop. Abbott is coming up to play checkers with me. I’ll leave the honors to you.”

The Barone’s face lighted considerably. He hated the artist only when he was visible. He was rather confused, however. Abbott had been invited to the dance. Why wasn’t he going? Could it be true? Had the artist tried his luck and lost? Ah, if fate were as kind as that! He let Harrigan depart alone.

Why not? What did he care? What if the father had been a fighter for prizes? What if the mother was possessed with a misguided desire to shine socially? What mattered it if they had once resided in an obscure tenement in a great city, and that grandfathers were as far back as they could go with any certainty? Was he not his own master? What titled woman of his acquaintance whose forebears had been powerful in the days of the Borgias, was not dimmed in the presence of this wonderful maid to whom all things had been given unreservedly? Her brow was fit for a royal crown, let alone a simple baronial tiara such as he could provide. The mother favored him a little; of this he was reasonably certain; but the moods of the daughter were difficult to discover or to follow.

To-night! The round moon was rising palely over Lecco; the moon, mistress of love and tides, toward whom all men and maids must look, though only Eros knows why! Evidently there was no answer to the Italian’s question, for he faced about and walked moodily toward the entrance. Here he paused, looking up at the empty window. Again a snatch of song—

O solo mio ... che bella cosa...!

What a beautiful thing indeed! Passionately he longed for the old days, when by his physical prowess alone oft a man won his lady. Diplomacy, torrents of words, sly little tricks, subterfuges, adroitness, stolen glances, careless touches of the hand; by these must a maid be won to-day. When she was happy she sang, when she was sad, when she was only mischievous. She was just as likely to sing O terra addio when she was happy as O sole mio when she was sad. So, how was a man to know the right approach to her variant moods? Sighing deeply, he went on to his room, to change his Piccadilly suit for another which was supposed to be the last word in the matter of evening dress.

Below, in the village, a man entered the Grand Hotel. He was tall, blond, rosy-cheeked. He carried himself like one used to military service; also, like one used to giving peremptory orders. The porter bowed, the director bowed, and the proprietor himself became a living carpenter’s square, hinged. The porter and the director recognized a personage; the proprietor recognized the man. It was of no consequence that the new arrival called himself Herr Rosen. He was assigned to a suite of rooms, and on returning to the bureau, the proprietor squinted his eyes abstractedly. He knew every woman of importance at that time residing on the Point. Certainly it could be none of these. Himmel! He struck his hands together. So that was it: the singer. He recalled the hints in certain newspaper paragraphs, the little tales with the names left to the imagination. So that was it?

What a woman! Men looked at her and went mad. And not so long ago one had abducted her in Paris. The proprietor threw up his hands in despair. What was going to happen to the peace of this bucolic spot? The youth permitted nothing to stand in his way, and the singer’s father was a retired fighter with boxing-gloves!