man, who I
am sure is an artist."

When the policeman had left them, Beryl took the portfolio and opened
it, while the owner watched her curiously, striving to penetrate the
silver gray folds of her veil.

"May I ask whether you expect to leave America immediately?"

"I expect to sail on the steamer for Liverpool next Saturday."

"Have you relatives in this country?"

"None. I am merely a tourist, seeking glimpses of the best of this vast
continent of yours."

"Did you make these sketches?"

"I did, from time to time; in fact, mine has been a sketching tour, and
this book is one of several I have filled in America."

With trembling fingers she untied the silk, lifted the sketch, and said
in a voice which, despite her efforts, quivered:

"I hope, sir, you will not consider me unwarrantably inquisitive, if I
ask, where did you see this face?"

"Ah! My monk of the mountains? That is 'Brother Luke'; looks like one
of Il Frate's wonderful heads, does he not? I saw him--let me see?
Egad! Just exactly where it was, that is the rub! It was far west,
beyond Assiniboia; somewhere in Alberta I am sure."

"Was it on British soil, or in the United States?"

"Certainly in British territory; and on one of the excursions I made
from Calgary. I think it was while hunting in the mountains between
Alberta and British Columbia. Let me see the sketch. Yes--10th of
August; I was in that region until 1st of September."

Beryl drew a deep breath of intense relief, as she reflected that
foreign territory might bar pursuit; and leaning forward, she asked
hesitatingly:

"Have you any objection to telling me the circumstances under which you
saw him; the situation in which you found him?"

"None whatever; but may I ask if you know him? Is my sketch so good a
portrait?"

"It is wonderfully like one I knew years ago; and of whom I desire to
receive tidings. My friend is a handsome man about twenty-four years of
age."

"I was camping out with a hunting party, and one day while they were
away gunning, I went to sketch a bit of fir wood clinging to the side
of a rocky gorge. The day was hot, and I sat down to rest in the shadow
of a stone ledge, that jutted over the cove where a spring bubbled from
the crag, and made a ribbon of water. Here is the place, on this sheet.
Over there, are the fir trees. Very soon I heard a rich voice chanting
a solemn strain from Palestrinas' Miserere; the very music I had
listened to in the Sistine