n the pointed end of his nose and the irregular,
nicked row of his teeth.

Altogether, he was a gentle, bilious-looking sort of man, who might have
been anything from a country gentleman to a moderately prosperous clerk.
As a matter of fact, he was the owner of a dozen small, not too
respectable, hotels through the West, and had an income of nearly half a
million dollars. He lived in Millings, a town in a certain Far-Western
State, where flourished the most pretentious and respectable of his
hotels. It had a famous bar, to which rode the sheep-herders, the
cowboys, the ranchers, the dry-farmers of the surrounding country--yes,
and sometimes, thirstiest of all, the workmen from more distant
oil-fields, a dangerous crew. Millings at that time had not yielded to
the generally increasing "dryness" of the West. It was "wet,"
notwithstanding its choking alkali dust; and the deep pool of its
wetness lay in Hudson's bar, The Aura. It was named for a woman who had
become his wife.

When Hudson came to New York he looked up his Eastern patrons, and it was
one of these who, knowing Arundel's need, encouraged the hotel-keeper in
his desire to secure a "jim-dandy picture" for the lobby of The Aura and
took him for the purpose to Marcus's studio. On that morning, hardly a
fortnight before the artist's death, Sheila was not at home.

Marcus, in spite of himself, was managed into a sale. It was of an
enormous canvas, covered weakly enough by a thin reproduction of a range
of the Rockies and a sagebrush flat. Mr. Hudson in his hollow voice
pronounced it "classy." "Say," he said, "put a little life into the
foreground and that would please _me_. It's what I'm seekin'. Put in an
automobile meetin' one of these old-time prairie schooners--the old West
sayin' howdy to the noo. That will tickle the trade." Mark, who was
feeling weak and ill, consented wearily. He sketched in the proposed
amendment and Hudson approved with one of his wrinkled smiles. He offered
a small price, at which Arundel leapt like a famished hound.

When his visitors had gone, the painter went feverishly to work. The day
before his death, Sheila, under his whispered directions, put the last
touches to the body of the "auto_m_obile."

"It's ghastly," sighed the sick man, "but it will do--for Millings." He
turned his back sadly enough to the canvas, which stood for him like a
monument to fallen hope. Sheila praised it with a faltering voice, but he
did not turn nor s