sholm. Did she never speak of
me?"

"Never," said Cedersholm thoughtfully. "She met so many people in
France; she was so surrounded. She admired greatly the little figure I
bought at the Exposition; it was always in our salon. We spoke of you as
a coming power, but I do not recall that she ever mentioned having known
you."

To Antony this was the greatest proof she could have given him of her
love for him. That careful silence, the long silence, not once speaking
his name. He had triumphed over Cedersholm. She had loved him.
Cedersholm murmured--

"And you did that bas-relief--a head silhouetted against a lattice? It
never left her room, but she never mentioned it to me although I greatly
admired it. It Was a perfect likeness." Fairfax saw Cedersholm peer at
him through the candle light. "Curious," he continued, "curious."

And Antony knew that Cedersholm would never forget his cry of
"Mary--Mary dead!" And her silence regarding his existence and his name,
and that silence and that cry would go together in the husband's memory.

The door of the studio was opened by Dearborn, who came in calling--

"Tony, Tony, old man."

Cedersholm rose, and Antony rose as well, putting out his hand, saying--

"I will undertake the work you speak of, if your committee will write me
confirming your suggestion. And I leave the price to you, you know; you
understand what such work is worth. I place myself in your hands."

Dearborn had come up to them. "Tony," said Dearborn, "what are you
plotting in the dark with a single candle?"

Fairfax presented him. "Mr. Cedersholm, Robert Dearborn, the playwright,
the author of 'All Roads Meet.'"

Dearborn shook the sculptor's hand lightly. He wondered how this must
have been for his friend. He looked curiously from one to the other.

"'All Roads Meet,'" he quoted keenly. "Good name, don't you think? They
all do meet somewhere"--he put his hand affectionately on Tony's
shoulder--"even if it is only at the Open Door." Then he asked, partly
smiling, "And the beautiful Mrs. Cedersholm, is she in Paris too?"

"My wife," said Cedersholm shortly, "died two years ago."

"Dead!" exclaimed Robert Dearborn in a low tone of regret, the tone of
every man who regrets the passing of a lovely creature that they have
admired. "Dead! I beg your pardon, I did not know. I am too heartily
sorry."

He put out his kindly hand. Cedersholm scarcely touched it. He was
excited, overwhelmed, and began to take