incipient muttonchops on his ruddy cheeks. He bore himself in
a manner strikingly capable, and there was a sort of trimness and
alertness about him, despite the too-generous shoulders of his coat. In
one hand he held a bulldog pipe, and in the other a copy of _Sporting
Life_. While MacMaster was explaining the purpose of his call he noticed
that the man surveyed him critically, though not impertinently. He was
admitted into a little tank of a lodge made of whitewashed stone, the
back door and windows opening upon a garden. A visitor's book and a pile
of catalogues lay on a deal table, together with a bottle of ink and
some rusty pens. The wall was ornamented with photographs and colored
prints of racing favorites.

"The studio is h'only open to the public on Saturdays and Sundays,"
explained the man--he referred to himself as "Jymes"--"but of course we
make exceptions in the case of pynters. Lydy Elling Treffinger 'erself
is on the Continent, but Sir 'Ugh's orders was that pynters was to 'ave
the run of the place." He selected a key from his pocket and threw open
the door into the studio which, like the lodge, was built against the
wall of the garden.

MacMaster entered a long, narrow room, built of smoothed planks, painted
a light green; cold and damp even on that fine May morning. The room was
utterly bare of furniture--unless a stepladder, a model throne, and a
rack laden with large leather portfolios could be accounted such--and
was windowless, without other openings than the door and the skylight,
under which hung the unfinished picture itself. MacMaster had never
seen so many of Treffinger's paintings together. He knew the painter
had married a woman with money and had been able to keep such of
his pictures as he wished. These, with all of _182_ his replicas and
studies, he had left as a sort of common legacy to the younger men of
the school he had originated.

As soon as he was left alone MacMaster sat down on the edge of the model
throne before the unfinished picture. Here indeed was what he had come
for; it rather paralyzed his receptivity for the moment, but gradually
the thing found its way to him.

At one o'clock he was standing before the collection of studies done for
_Boccaccio's Garden_ when he heard a voice at his elbow.

"Pardon, sir, but I was just about to lock up and go to lunch. Are
you lookin' for the figure study of Boccaccio 'imself?" James queried
respectfully. "Lydy Elling Treffinger giv