man she loved, but because by every
association that was important to her and to him they were canonized.

That evening, Steele made his announcement. He was going to Havre and
Paris. If anything could be learned at that end, he would find it out,
and while there he would trace the pictures.

"You see," he assured her, with a cheery confidence he by no means
felt, "it's really much simpler than it looks. He was hurt, and he did
not recover at once. By the time he reaches France, the sea-voyage
will have restored him, and he will cable. Those tramp steamers are
slow, and he hasn't yet had time. If he takes a little longer to get
well, I'll be there to look after him, and bring him home."

The girl shook her head.

"You haven't thought about the main thing," she said quickly, leaning
forward and resting her fingers lightly on his arm, "or perhaps you
thought of it, George dear, and were too kind to speak of it. After
this, he may wake up--he may wake up the other man. I must go to him
myself. I must be with him." Her voice became eager and vibrant: "I
want to be the first living being he will greet."

Steele found a thousand objections rising up for utterance, but, as he
looked at the steady blue of her eyes, he left them all unsaid. She
had gone to South America, of course she would go to France.

* * * * *

It would be imaginative flattery to call the lodgings of Alfred St.
John and his daughter commodious, even with the added comforts that
the late years had brought to the alleviation of their barrenness. The
windows still looked out over the dismal roofs of the _Quartier Latin_
and the frowning gray chimney pots where the sparrows quarreled.

St. John might have moved to more commodious quarters, for the days
were no longer as pinched as had been those of the past, yet he
remained in the house where he had lived before his own ambition died.

His stock-in-trade was his agency in handling the paintings of
Frederick Marston, the half-mad painter who, since he had left Paris
shortly after his marriage, had not returned to his ancient haunts,
or had any parcel in the life of the art world that idolized him,
except as he was represented by this ambassador.

St. John sold the pictures that the painter, traveling about,
presumably concealing himself under assumed names, sent back to the
waiting market and the eager critics.

And St. John knew that, inasmuch as he had been poor, in t