"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."
"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."
"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."