one would expect in Faber's rooms and I looked at it more closely.
On it were the initials "R. T." Had Rita Tourville visited him?

Craig had scarcely finished and was packing up his apparatus when we
heard a noise outside. A second later, Faber himself entered, with Rita,
evidently looking for something.

"Oh, yes, Rita,--here it is. Why, Kennedy--how are you? Did you get your
photograph?"

Kennedy replied that he had, and thanked him.

It was easy to see Rita's pleasure at being with the young connoisseur,
but at the sight of Craig I fancied for a moment that I saw a flash of
that passionate resentment which had caused me to find a resemblance
between the expression of her face and that of De Montespan in the
painting, a hint at what she would do or dare to protect the object of
her affections.

We departed shortly, leaving Rita and Faber deep in the discussion of
some art topic.

It was not until late in the afternoon that we were able to revisit
Jacot's. He received us cordially, but Craig, by a whispered word or
two, was able to postpone the answer to the clever proposal which might
have been a trap prepared for us.

Craig, with a regular camera which he had brought also, set to work
snapping pictures and objects of art with reckless profusion, moving
them about to get a better light and otherwise consuming time.

At last came the opportunity he had been awaiting, when Jacot had a
customer in the front of the store. Quickly he set up the peculiar
apparatus which he had used at Faber's before the copy of the Watteau in
the rear of the shop, switched on the electricity, and amid the
suppressed sputtering duplicated the work I had seen him do before.

As he was packing the apparatus up, I happened to glance toward the
front of the store. There were Leila and Jacot in earnest conversation.
I whispered to Kennedy, and, a moment later, she caught sight of me,
appeared not to recognize me, and left.

Jacot sauntered back to us, I thought, concealing his haste.

Before he could speak, Kennedy asked, "Who was that woman?"

He had finished packing up the apparatus and even if Jacot had heard
something that caused him to change his mind, it was now too late to
stop Kennedy.

"Why," hastened Jacot, apparently frank, "that is the maid of the Miss
Fleming, the artist who has just died. She has come to me to see whether
I can get her a position with another artist."

"I thought I recognized her," remarked Kenned