th
James Rutlidge?

Chapter X

A Cry in the Night

As Conrad Lagrange and Mr. Rutlidge entered the studio, Aaron King turned
from the easel, where he had drawn the velvet curtain to hide the finished
portrait. Mrs. Taine was standing at the other side of the room, wrap in
hand, calmly waiting, ready to go. The artist greeted Mr. Rutlidge
cordially, while the woman triumphantly announced the completion of her
portrait.

"Ah! permit me to congratulate you, old man," said Rutlidge, addressing
the artist familiarly. "It is too much, I suppose, to expect a look at it
this afternoon?"

"Thanks,"--returned the artist,--"you are all coming to-morrow, at three,
you know. I would rather not show it to-day. It is a little late for the
best light; and I would like for _you_ to see it under the most favorable
conditions possible."

The critic was visibly flattered by the painter's manner and by his
well-chosen emphasis upon the personal pronoun. "Quite right"--he said
approvingly--"quite right, old boy." He turned to the novelist--"These
painter chaps, you know, Lagrange, like to have a few hours for a last
touch or two before _I_ come around." He laughed pompously at his own
words--the others joining.

When Mrs. Taine and her companions were gone, the artist said hurriedly
to his friend, "Come on, let's get it over." He led the way back to the
studio.

"I thought the light was too bad," said the older man, quizzingly, as they
entered the big room.

"It's good enough for _your_ needs," retorted the painter savagely. "You
could see all you want by candle-light." He jerked the curtain angrily
aside, and--without a glance at the canvas--walked away to stand at the
window looking out upon the rose garden--waiting for the flood of the
novelist's scorn to overwhelm him. At last, when no sound broke the quiet
of the room, he turned--to find himself alone.

Conrad Lagrange, after one look at the portrait on the easel, had slipped
quietly out of the building.

The artist found his friend, a few minutes later, meditatively smoking his
pipe on the front porch, with Czar lying at his feet.

"Well," said the painter, curiously,--anxious, as he had said, to have it
over,--"why the deuce don't you _say_ something?"

The novelist answered slowly, "My vocabulary is too limited, for one
reason, and"--he looked thoughtfully down at Czar--"I prefer to wait until
you have finished the portrait."

"It _is_ finished," returne