pal figure is known to
him. When I painted those pictures I never dreamed of any eye but my
own seeing them. So you, my dear and trusted secretary, are the one
person to whom I can turn. Will you do what I ask? And will you do it
now?"

Nurse Rosemary pushed back her chair. "Why of course, Mr. Dalmain. I am
here to do anything and everything you may desire; and to do it when
you desire it."

Garth took a key from his waistcoat pocket, and laid it on the table.
"There is the studio latch-key. I think the canvases I want are in the
corner furthest from the door, behind a yellow Japanese screen. They
are large--five feet by three and a half. If they are too cumbersome
for you to bring down, lay them face to face, and ring for Simpson. But
do not leave him alone with them."

Nurse Rosemary picked up the key, rose, and went over to the piano,
which she opened. Then she tightened the purple cord, which guided
Garth from his chair to the instrument.

"Sit and play," she said, "while I am upstairs, doing your commission.
But just tell me one thing. You know how greatly your work interests
me. When I find the pictures, is it your wish that I give them a mere
cursory glance, just sufficient for identification; or may I look at
them, in the beautiful studio light? You can trust me to do whichever
you desire."

The artist in Garth could not resist the wish to have his work seen and
appreciated. "You may look at them of course, if you wish," he sail.
"They are quite the best work I ever did, though I painted them wholly
from memory. That is--I mean, that used to be--a knack of mine. And
they are in no sense imaginary. I painted exactly what I saw--at least,
so far as the female face and figure are concerned. And they make the
pictures. The others are mere accessories." He stood up, and went to
the piano. His fingers began to stray softly amongst the harmonies of
the Veni.

Nurse Rosemary moved towards the door. "How shall I know them?" she
asked, and waited.

The chords of the Veni hushed to a murmur, Garth's voice from the piano
came clear and distinct, but blending with the harmonies as if he were
reciting to music.

"A woman and a man ... alone, in a garden--but the surroundings are
only indicated. She is in evening dress; soft, black, and trailing;
with lace at her breast. It is called: 'The Wife.'"

"Yes?"

"The same woman; the same scene; but without the man, this time. No
need to paint the man; for now--visible