y, but he couldn't
bring himself to ask him directly. He kept his ears open for any
chance remarks that might throw light on the matter, but Charley's
style was so flowery he didn't get much. Charley finally departed on
some errand of his own.

Left alone, Evan went about his room, touching the familiar objects,
looking into everything, trying to fill in that blank space in his
mind. As soon as he saw the paraphernalia he knew he was a painter.
His pictures interested him greatly. He knew they were his own
pictures, but he had lost all sense of kinship with them. In a way it
was a great advantage; he brought a fresh point of view to bear.

"I see what's the matter with them," he said to himself. "You have
been trying to convey the inner spirit of things without being
sufficiently sure of their outward form. What you've got to do is to
study the outsides of things further, and invite the spirit to express
itself."

So interested was he that he put a fresh canvas on his easel on the
spot, and started to paint. Any object would serve to prove his new
theory; their brown pitcher with a broken spout and a green bowl beside
it on the table. An hour passed without his noticing its flight.

Charley returned.

"Hello!" he said. "Had another row with your old man?"

"Old man!" thought Evan. "Oh, nothing much," he said aloud.

"Well, I must say you take your job pretty lightly," said Charley.

Evan thought: "So I have a job."

Charley went on: "There was a story in the paper this morning about one
of your lot. I brought it in. Sounds fishy."

Evan pricked up his ears.

Charley read: "A reporter assigned to police headquarters happened to
see Inspector Durdan, chief of the Detective Bureau, and five plain
clothes men climbing into a covered motor van on Mulberry street
yesterday, and scenting a good story, followed in a taxi-cab.
Naturally the Inspector does not personally take part except in raids
of some importance. The chase led to No. 11 Van Dorn street. Van Dorn
is an obscure little street on the far West side. An agitated
individual was discovered on the steps of this house whom the reporter
recognised as Mr. George Deaves, son of the multi-millionaire. He
cried out to the police: 'He's gone in! He's gone in!' The police
forced their way into the house. One was left at the door, and the
reporter was not allowed to enter. Through the open door he saw other
police inside, who must have entered