throne, as
though posing herself, for her portrait.

Suddenly, with a startled cry, she sprang to her feet; then shrank back,
white and trembling--her big eyes fixed with pleading fear upon the man
who stood in the open doorway, regarding her with a curious, triumphant
smile. It was James Rutlidge.

Sibyl, occupied with her childlike delight, had failed to hear the
automobile when it stopped in front of the house. Finding no one in the
house the man had gone on to the studio, where--with the assurance of an
intimate acquaintance--he had pushed open the door that was standing ajar.

At the girl's frightened manner, the man laughed. Closing the door, he
said, with an insinuating sneer, "You were not expecting me, it seems."

His words aroused Sibyl from her momentary weakness. Rising, she said
calmly, "I was not expecting any one, Mr. Rutlidge."

Again he laughed--with unpleasant meaning. "You certainly look to be very
much at home." He moved confidently to the easel stool and, seating
himself continued with a leering smile, "What's the matter with my taking
the artist's place for a little while--at least, until he comes?"

The girl was too innocent to understand his assumption but her pure mind
could not fail to sense the evil in his words.

"I had permission to come here this afternoon," she said--her voice
trembling a little with the fear that she did not understand. "Won't you
go, please? Neither Mr. King nor Mr. Lagrange are at home."

"I do not doubt your having permission to come here," he returned, with
meaning stress upon the word, "permission". "I see you even carry a key to
this really delightful room." He motioned with his head toward the door
where he had seen the key in the lock, as she had left it.

At this, she grasped a hint of the man's thought and, for an instant, drew
hack in shame. Then, suddenly with a burst of indignant anger, she took a
step toward him, demanding clearly; "Are you saying that I am in the
habit of coming here to meet Mr. King?"

He laughed mockingly. "Really, my dear, no one, seeing you, now, could
blame the man for giving you a key to this place where he is popularly
supposed to be undisturbed. Mr. King is neither such a virtuous saint, nor
so engrossed in his art, as to resent the companionship of such a vision
of loveliness--simply because it comes in the form of good flesh and
blood. Why be angry with me?"

Her cheeks were crimson as she said, again, "Will you go?"