t least, to finish his picture;
and as a sop to his conscience, to stay its immediate ravening, he
resolved to finish that syndicate letter first, and borrow enough money
from Fulkerson to be able to send his father's check back; or, if not
that, then to return the sum of it partly in Fulkerson's check. While he
still teemed with both of these good intentions the old man from whom
he was modelling his head of Judas came, and Beaton saw that he must get
through with him before he finished either the picture or the letter; he
would have to pay him for the time, anyway. He utilized the remorse with
which he was tingling to give his Judas an expression which he found
novel in the treatment of that character--a look of such touching,
appealing self-abhorrence that Beaton's artistic joy in it amounted to
rapture; between the breathless moments when he worked in dead silence
for an effect that was trying to escape him, he sang and whistled
fragments of comic opera.

In one of the hushes there came a blow on the outside of the door that
made Beaton jump, and swear with a modified profanity that merged itself
in apostrophic prayer. He knew it must be Fulkerson, and after roaring
"Come in!" he said to the model, "That 'll do this morning, Lindau."

Fulkerson squared his feet in front of the bust and compared it by
fleeting glances with the old man as he got stiffly up and suffered
Beaton to help him on with his thin, shabby overcoat.

"Can you come to-morrow, Lindau?"

"No, not to-morrow, Mr. Peaton. I haf to zit for the young ladties."

"Oh!" said Beaton. "Wet-more's class? Is Miss Leighton doing you?"

"I don't know their namess," Lindau began, when Fulkerson said:

"Hope you haven't forgotten mine, Mr. Lindau? I met you with Mr. March
at Maroni's one night." Fulkerson offered him a universally shakable
hand.

"Oh yes! I am gladt to zee you again, Mr. Vulkerson. And Mr. Marge--he
don't zeem to gome any more?"

"Up to his eyes in work. Been moving on from Boston and getting settled,
and starting in on our enterprise. Beaton here hasn't got a very
flattering likeness of you, hey? Well, good-morning," he said, for
Lindau appeared not to have heard him and was escaping with a bow
through the door.

Beaton lit a cigarette which he pinched nervously between his lips
before he spoke. "You've come for that letter, I suppose, Fulkerson? It
isn't done."

Fulkerson turned from staring at the bust to which he had mounted. "Wha