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[Illustration: "Your address!" bawled the Duke.]

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THE PLACE OF HONEYMOONS

By
HAROLD MACGRATH

Author of
THE MAN ON THE BOX, THE GOOSE GIRL,
THE CARPET FROM BAGDAD, ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ARTHUR I. KELLER

INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

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Copyright 1912
The Bobbs-Merrill Company

PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.

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                              To B. O'G.

                  Horace calls no more to me,
                     Homer in the dust-heap lies:
                  I have found my Odyssey
                  In the lightness of her glee,
                     In the laughter of her eyes.

                  Ovid's page is thumbed no more,
                     E'en Catullus has no choice!
                  There is endless, precious lore,
                  Such as I ne'er knew before,
                     In the music of her voice.

                  Breath of hyssop steeped in wine,
                     Breath of violets and furze,
                  Wild-wood roses, Grecian myrrhs,
                  All these perfumes do combine
                     In that maiden breath of hers.

                  Nay, I look not at the skies,
                     Nor the sun that hillward slips,
                  For the day lives or it dies
                  In the laughter of her eyes,
                     In the music of her lips!

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER                            PAGE
     I.  At the Stage Door            1
    II.  There Is a Woman?           19
   III.  The Beautiful Tigress       36
    IV.  The Joke of Monsieur        53
     V.  Captive or Runaway          74
    VI.  The Bird Behind Bars       103
   VII.  Battling Jimmie            126
  VIII.  Moonlight and a Prince     146
    IX.  Colonel Caxley-Webster     166
     X.  Marguerites and Emeralds   185
    XI.  At the Crater's Edge       202
   XII.  Dick Courtlandt's Boy      214
  XIII.  Everything But the Truth   232
   XIV.  A Comedy with Music        249
    XV.  Herr Rosen's Regrets       265
   XVI.  The Apple of Discord       282
  XVII.  The Ball at the Villa      303
 XVIII.  Pistols for Two            326
   XIX.  Courtlandt Tells a Story   345
    XX.  Journey's End              363

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THE PLACE OF HONEYMOONS

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CHAPTER I

AT THE STAGE DOOR


Courtlandt sat perfectly straight; his ample shoulders did not touch the
back of his chair; and his arms were folded tightly across his chest. The
characteristic of his attitude was tenseness. The nostrils were well
defined, as in one who sets the upper jaw hard upon the nether. His brown
eyes--their gaze directed toward the stage whence came the voice of the
prima donna--epitomized the tension, expressed the whole as in a word.

Just now the voice was pathetically subdued, yet reached every part of the
auditorium, kindling the ear with its singularly mellowing sweetness. To
Courtlandt it resembled, as no other sound, the note of a muffled Burmese
gong, struck in the dim incensed cavern of a temple. A Burmese gong:
briefly and magically the stage, the audience, the amazing gleam and
scintillation of the Opera, faded. He heard only the voice and saw only
the purple shadows in the temple at Rangoon, the oriental sunset splashing
the golden dome, the wavering lights of the dripping candles, the dead
flowers, the kneeling devotees, the yellow-robed priests, the tatters of
gold-leaf, fresh and old, upon the rows of placid grinning Buddhas. The
vision was of short duration. The sigh, which had been so long repressed,
escaped; his shoulders sank a little, and the angle of his chin became
less resolute; but only for a moment. Tension gave place to an ironical
grimness. The brows relaxed, but the lips became firmer. He listened, with
this new expression unchanging, to the high note that soared above all
others. The French horns blared and the timpani crashed. The curtain sank
slowly. The audience rustled, stood up, sought its wraps, and pressed
toward the exits and the grand staircase. It was all over.

Courtlandt took his leave in leisure. Here and there he saw familiar
faces, but these, after the finding glance, he studiously avoided. He
wanted to be alone. For while the music was still echoing in his ears, in
a subtone, his brain was afire with keen activity; but unfortunately for
the going forward of things, this mental state was divided into so many
battalions, led by so many generals, indirectly and indecisively, nowhere.
This plan had no beginning, that one had no ending, and the other neither
beginning nor ending. Outside he lighted a cigar, not because at that
moment he possessed a craving for nicotine, but because like all
inveterate smokers he believed that tobacco conduced to clarity of
thought. And mayhap it did. At least, there presently followed a mental
calm that expelled all this confusion. The goal waxed and waned as he
gazed down the great avenue with its precise rows of lamps. Far away he
could discern the outline of the brooding Louvre.

There was not the least hope in the world for him to proceed toward his
goal this night. He realized this clearly, now that he was face to face
with actualities. It required more than the chaotic impulses that had
brought him back from the jungles of