But reason promptly asked him what he should have done had he caught the singer. Yes, supposing he had, what excuse would he have had to offer? Denial on her part would have been simple, and righteous indignation at being accosted on the street simpler still. He had not seen her face, and doubtless she was aware of this fact. Thus, she would have had all the weapons for defense and he not one for attack. But though reason argued well, it did not dislodge his longing. He would have been perfectly happy to have braved her indignation for a single glance at her face. He walked back, lighting his pipe. Who could she be? What peculiar whimsical freak had sent her singing past his window at one o'clock of the morning? A grand opera singer, returning home from a late supper? But he dismissed this opinion even as he advanced it. He knew something about grand opera singers. They attend late suppers, it is true, but they ride home in luxurious carriages and never risk their golden voices in this careless if romantic fashion. And in New York nobody took the trouble to serenade anybody else, unless paid in advance and armed with a police permit. As for being a comic-opera star, he refused to admit the possibility; and he relegated this well-satisfied constellation to the darks of limbo. He had heard a Voice. A vast, shadow loomed up in the middle of the street, presently to take upon itself the solid outlines of a policeman who came lumbering over to add or subtract his quota of interest in the affair. Hillard wisely stopped and waited for him, pulling up the collar of his jacket, as he began to note that there was a winter's tang to the fog. "Hi, what's all this?" the policeman called out roughly. "To what do you refer?" Hillard counter-questioned, puffing. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I heard a woman singin', that's what!" explained the guardian of the law. "So did I." "Oh, you did, huh?" "Certainly. It is patent that my ears are as good as yours." "Huh! See her?" "For a moment," Hillard admitted. "Well, we can't have none o' this in the streets. It's disorderly." "My friend," said Hillard, rather annoyed at the policeman's tone, "you don't think for an instant that I was directing this operetta?" "Think? Where's your hat?" Hillard ran his hand over his head. The policeman had him here. "I did not bring it out." "Too warm and summery; huh? It don't look good. I've been watchin' these parts fer a leddy. They call her Leddy Lightfinger; an' she has some O' the gents done to a pulp when it comes to liftin' jools an' trinkets. Somebody fergits to lock the front door, an' she finds it out. Why did you come out without yer lid?" "Just forgot it, that's all." "Which way'd she go?" "You'll need a map and a search-light. I started to run after her myself. I heard a voice from my window; I saw a woman; I made for the street; _niente_!" "Huh?" "_Niente_, nothing!"