hall and entered the studio. It was
Evelin March. Her eye fell upon the portrait of Eva Delorme still
resting upon the easel, and she glanced about hastily for the artist. He
was not there. For some reason she did not remove her wrap, but stood
still, listening. A wagon rattled by outside, but within all was silent.

"Paul!" she called, softly.

There was no reply.

"He has stepped out for a moment," she thought; "he will be back
presently."

She approached the face on the easel, cautiously, as though it were
alive.

"I wonder who she is," she muttered; "I have seen her somewhere
before--or I have dreamed it. He said it was his masterpiece. I hate
her!"

She seated herself before the picture, studying it silently. Little by
little a fear invaded her bosom--a strange fear, such as she had never
known before. A fear of this portrait, of the lonely room, of the
weapons upon the wall. It seemed to her that something horrible was
about to happen.

She started up and began to pace up and down the room to drive away this
feeling. Why did the artist not come? She parted back the draperies and
looked into the room beyond. He could not have gone far; his coat was
hanging upon the rack, and his velvet studio jacket was gone. Entering,
she approached the coat and put her hand against it in a sort of caress.

How she loved him! She seemed to have forgotten or forgiven the offered
insult of yesterday. Turning back the garment she touched her lips to
the silk lining where it had covered his heart. As she did so she
noticed the tinted edge of a narrow envelope in the inner pocket. In an
instant she was seized with a passion of curiosity. All her jealousy and
suspicions of the sweet-faced girl in gray came rushing back. She
listened at the curtained arch for a moment, but there was no sound of
approaching footsteps; then, her eyes flashing, and her cheeks flaming
guiltily, she snatched the delicate missive from its concealment, and
with trembling hands tore it from its covering. In another instant her
suspicions were verified. The woman reading seemed suddenly to have
become deranged.

"Coward!--liar!--cur!" she screamed.

She tore the letter in halves, crumpled it in her hands, and flung it
upon the floor. Then suddenly becoming calm she gathered up the pieces
hastily and concealed them in her bosom. A look of peculiar cunning had
come into her eyes.

"So he is going to meet her," she muttered, savagely; "but they will n