"Oh, that would be unfinished, like Schubert's," Van Zandt replies, with a provoking smile.
"Fortunately. For if you design to complete it you will have to do so from memory. I am going away," declares Isabel, with a flush in each cheek.
"Going away? Where?"
"Ah, mon ami, that is for you to find out. Besides, what do you care? I have had an offer—diplomatic service, I believe it is politely called. I leave in two days."
"By Jove! You would do well in diplomatic circles," exclaims Van Zandt, glancing at her in frank admiration. "You said nothing of this before."
"I have only just made up my mind. Your symphony decided me," Isabel avers with some bitterness.
"The Garden is filling up," Van Zandt remarks abruptly. About all the tables around them are beginning to be taken. "Hello! There's that chap again," he adds, as two men seat themselves at an adjoining table and fall to chatting.
"Didn't know I was a musical critic, did you, Barker? Well, you see our regular music expert is off duty sick to-night, so they put me on the job. It's a short one."
"Your duties, friend Ashley, appear to be beautifully diversified."
"They are that. Anything from a murder to a concert. I suppose Raymond is about the same as when we left it, about a year ago?"
"To a dot. Same crowd on the hotel veranda. Same symposium of hay, horse and village gossip."
"Just the same it is a great country. I'd give several good iron dollars to be back for one morning in that gorge near South Ashfield, on the old wood road where I ran upon Ernest Stanley."
"Push over a bit. Here's another party," says Barker, as a jolly quartet approach.
"Plenty of room," they declare, as they find chairs and seat themselves close by. The man nearest to the detective and the newspaper man is a stout, florid-faced party, whose clean-cut visage and smooth bearing be-
