it. In the background was a sunset made of
cymbal strokes of vermilion, splattered with gold, and seamed with
fantasies of red. In the foreground fluttered a chimera, so artfully
done that one almost heard the whir of its wings. And beneath it
crouched the Sphinx. From the eyrie of the years the ages had passed
unmarked, unnoticed. The sphinx brooded, motionless and dumb.

With patient, scrutinizing attention Tristrem looked in her eyes and at
her face. There was no mistake, it was Viola. Was there ever another
girl in the world such as she? And this was her secret! Or was there a
secret, after all, and might he not have misunderstood?

"Tell me," he said--"I will not praise your picture; in many respects it
is above praise--but tell me, is what you said true?"

"Is what true?"

"What you said of the model."

"About her being in the chalet? Of course it is. Why do you ask?"

"No, not that, tell me--Mr. Yorke, I do not mean to be tragic; if I seem
so, forgive me and overlook it. But as you love honor, tell me, is it
true that she had a child in this place?"

"Yes, so I heard."

"And you say her name was----"

"Madame Dubois--Dupont--I have forgotten; they can tell you at the
bureau. But it seems to me----"

"Thank you," Tristrem answered. "Thank you," he repeated. He hesitated a
second and then, with an abrupt good-night, he hurried from the atelier
and down the corridor till he reached his room.

Through the open window, the sulphur moon poured in. He looked out in
the garden. Beyond, half concealed in the shadows, he could see the
outline of the chalet. And it was there she had hid! He pressed his
hands to his forehead; he could not understand. For the moment he felt
that if he could lose his reason it would be a grateful release. If only
some light would come! He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped
his face. And then suddenly, as he did so, he caught a spark of that for
which he groped. The room turned round, and he sank into a chair.

Yes, he remembered, it was at Bergamo, no, at Bologna. Yes, it was at
Bergamo, he remembered perfectly well. He had taken from one of his
trunks a coat that he had not worn since he went into mourning. It had
been warm that day, and he wanted some thinner clothing. He remembered
at the time congratulating himself that he had had the forethought to
bring it. And later in the day he had taken from the pocket a
handkerchief of a smaller size than that which he habi