dropped into a fellow-artist's studio. Sometimes he
strolled into a club or cafe where he knew he would be likely to find
some friend who would help him while away a tiresome hour. Bertram's
friends quite vied with each other in rendering this sort of aid, so
much so, indeed, that--naturally, perhaps--Bertram came to call on their
services more and more frequently.

Particularly was this the case when, after the splints were removed,
Bertram found, as the days passed, that his arm was not improving as it
should improve. This not only disappointed and annoyed him, but worried
him. He remembered sundry disquieting warnings given by the physician
at the time of the former break--warnings concerning the probable
seriousness of a repetition of the injury. To Billy, of course, Bertram
said nothing of all this; but just before Christmas he went to see a
noted specialist.

An hour later, almost in front of the learned surgeon's door, Bertram
met Bob Seaver.

"Great Scott, Bertie, what's up?" ejaculated Seaver. "You look as if
you'd seen a ghost."

"I have," answered Bertram, with grim bitterness. "I've seen the ghost
of--of every 'Face of a Girl' I ever painted."

"Gorry! So bad as that? No wonder you look as if you'd been disporting
in graveyards," chuckled Seaver, laughing at his own joke "What's the
matter--arm on a rampage to day?"

He paused for reply, but as Bertram did not answer at once, he resumed,
with gay insistence: "Come on! You need cheering up. Suppose we go down
to Trentini's and see who's there."

"All right," agreed Bertram, dully. "Suit yourself."

Bertram was not thinking of Seaver, Trentini's, or whom he might find
there. Bertram was thinking of certain words he had heard less than
half an hour ago. He was wondering, too, if ever again he could think of
anything but those words.

"The truth?" the great surgeon had said. "Well, the truth is--I'm sorry
to tell you the truth, Mr. Henshaw, but if you will have it--you've
painted the last picture you'll ever paint with your right hand, I fear.
It's a bad case. This break, coming as it did on top of the serious
injury of two or three years ago, was bad enough; but, to make matters
worse, the bone was imperfectly set and wrongly treated, which could not
be helped, of course, as you were miles away from skilled surgeons at
the time of the injury. We'll do the best we can, of course; but--well,
you asked for the truth, you remember; so I had to give it t