ed to! Of course I couldn't do anything in a
large public way, so soon after Mr. Taine's death, you know; but I have
been busy, just the same, and everything is fixed. When our picture is
exhibited next season, you will find yourself not only a famous painter,
but a social success as well." She paused. When he still did not speak,
she went on, with an air of troubled sadness; "I _do_ miss Jim's help
though. Isn't it frightful the way he disappeared? Where do you suppose he
is? I can't--I won't--believe that anything has happened to him. It's all
just one of his schemes to get himself talked about. You'll see that he
will appear again, safe and sound, when the papers stop filling their
columns about him. I know Jim Rutlidge, too well."

Aaron King thought of those bones, picked bare by the carrion birds, at
the foot of the cliff. "It seems to be one of the mysteries of the day,"
he said. "Commonplace enough, no doubt, if one only had the key to it."

Mrs. Taine had evidently not been in Fairlands long enough to hear the
story of Sibyl's disappearance--for which the artist mentally gave thanks.

"I am glad for one thing," continued the woman, her mind intent upon the
main purpose of her call. "Jim had already written a splendid criticism of
your picture--before he went away--and I have it. All this newspaper talk
about him will only help to attract attention to what he has said about
_you._ They are saying such nice things of him and his devotion to art,
you know--it is all bound to help you." She waited for his approval, and
for some expression of his gratitude.

"I fear, Mrs. Taine," he said slowly, "that you are making a mistake."

She laughed nervously, and answered with forced gaiety. "Not me. I'm too
old a hand at the game not to know just how far I dare or dare not go."

"I do not mean that"--he returned--"I mean that I can not do my part. I
fear you are mistaken in me."

Again, she laughed. "What nonsense! I like for you to be modest, of
course--that will be one of your greatest charms. But if you are worried
about the quality of your work--forget it, my dear boy. Once I have made
you the rage, no one will stop to think whether your pictures are good or
bad. The art is not in what you do, but in how you get it before the
world. Ask Conrad Lagrange if I am not right."

"As to that," returned the artist, "Mr. Lagrange agrees with you,
perfectly."

"But what is this that you are doing now? Will it be ready fo