ll issue from the distinction of being
'Marston's first disciple' into a larger distinction more absolutely
his own." There was more, but the feature which caught her eye was the
fact stated that, "A gentleman bought this picture for his private
collection, refusing to give his name."

"What does it mean?" demanded Duska, handing the clipping to Steele.
"That picture and the landscape from the Knob were not for sale."

The dealer was puzzled.

"Mr. Saxon," he explained, "directed that from this assignment two
pictures were to be reserved. They were designated by marks on the
back of the cases and the canvases. Neither the portrait nor the
landscape was so marked."

"He must have made a mistake, in the hurry of packing," exclaimed the
girl, in deep distress. "He must have marked them wrong!"

"Who bought them?" demanded Steele.

The dealer shook his head.

"It was a gentleman, evidently an Englishman, though he said he lived
in Paris. He declined to give his name, and paid cash. He took the
pictures with him in a cab to his hotel. He did not even state where
he was stopping." The dealer paused, then added: "He explained to me
that he collected for the love of pictures, and that he found the
notoriety attaching to the purchase of famous paintings extremely
distasteful."

"Have you ever seen this gentleman before?" urged Steele.

"Yes," the art agent answered reflectively, "he has from time to time
picked up several of Mr. Saxon's pictures, and his conversation
indicated that he was equally familiar with the work of Marston
himself. He said he knew the Paris agent of Mr. Saxon quite well, and
it is possible that through that source you might be able to locate
him. I am very sorry the mistake occurred, and, while I am positive
that you will find the letters 'N. F. S.' (not for sale) on the two
pictures I have held, I shall do all in my power to trace the lost
ones."

In one of the packing rooms, the suspicions of Duska were
corroborated. Two canvases were found about the same shape and size as
the two that had been bought by the foreign art-lover. Palpably,
Saxon, in his hurry of boxing, had wrongly labeled them.

In the flood of her despair, the girl found room for a new pang. It
was not only because these pictures were the fulfillment of Saxon's
most mature genius that their loss became a little tragedy; not even
merely because in them she felt that she had in a measure triumphed
over Marston's hold on the