rose garden, that morning, to
leave the promised letter and key at the little gate in the corner of the
Ragged Robin hedge.

Chapter XIII

Myra Willard's Challenge

Since her meeting with Conrad Lagrange in the rose garden, Sibyl Andres
had looked, every day, for that promised letter. She found it early in the
afternoon. It was a quaint letter--written in the spirit of their
meeting--telling her the probable time of her neighbor's return; warning
her, in fear of some fanciful horror, to beware of the picture on the
easel; and wishing her joy of the adventure. With the note, was a key.

A few minutes later, the girl unlocked the door of the studio, and entered
the building that had once been so familiar to her, but was now, in its
interior, so transformed. Slowly, she pushed the door to, behind her. As
though half frightened at her own daring, she stood quite still, looking
about. In the atmosphere of that somewhat richly furnished apartment;
poised timidly as if for ready flight; she seemed, indeed, the spirit that
the novelist--in playful fancy--insisted that she was. Her cheeks were
glowing with color; her eyes were bright with the excitement of her
innocent adventure, and with her genuine admiration and appreciation of
the beautiful room.

Presently,--growing bolder,--she began moving about the
studio--light-footed and graceful as a wild thing from her own mountain
home, and, indeed, with much the air of a gentle creature of the woods
that had strayed into the haunts of men. Intensely interested in the
things she found, she gradually forgot her timidity, and gave herself to
the enjoyment of her surroundings, with the freedom and abandon of a
child. From picture to picture, she went, with wide, eager eyes. She
turned over the sketches in the big portfolios that were so invitingly
open; looked with awe upon the brushes stuck in the big Chinese jar--upon
the palettes, and at the tubes of color; flitting to the window that
looked out upon her garden, and back to the great, north light with its
view of the distant mountains; and again and again, paused to stand with
her hands clasped behind her, in front of the big easel with its canvas
hidden under the velvet curtain. Then she must try the chairs, the
oriental couch, and even the stool--where she had seen the artist sitting,
sometimes, at his work, when she had watched him from the arbor; and
last--in a pretty make believe--she tried the seat on the model