wardine afterwards did me a great service; but his placing me
under an obligation doesn't relieve me from the other, which I'd incurred
first."

Somewhat to his surprise, Jake nodded agreement. "No, not from your point
of view. But what makes you think Kenwardine _is_ dangerous?"

"I can't answer. You had better take it for granted that I know what I'm
talking about, and keep away from him."

"As a matter of fact, it was Miss Kenwardine to whom you owed most," Jake
said meaningly. "Do you suggest that she's dangerous, too?"

Dick frowned and his face got red, but he said nothing, and Jake resumed:
"There's a mystery about the matter and you know more than you intend to
tell; but if you blame the girl for anything, you're absolutely wrong. If
you'll wait a minute, I'll show you what I mean."

He went into the shack and came back with a drawing-block which he stood
upon the table under the lamp, and Dick saw that it was a water-color
portrait of Clare Kenwardine. He did not know much about pictures, but it
was obvious that Jake had talent. The girl stood in the patio, with a
pale-yellow wall behind her, over which a vivid purple creeper trailed.
Her lilac dress showed the graceful lines of her slender figure against
the harmonious background, and matched the soft blue of her eyes and the
delicate white and pink of her skin. The patio was flooded with strong
sunlight, but the girl looked strangely fresh and cool.

"I didn't mean to show you this, but it's the best way of explaining what
I think," Jake said with some diffidence. "I'm weak in technique, because
I haven't been taught, but I imagine I've got sensibility. It's plain
that when you paint a portrait you must study form and color, but there's
something else that you can only feel. I don't mean the character that's
expressed by the mouth and eyes; it's something vague and elusive that
psychologists give you a hint of when they talk about the _aura_. Of
course you can't paint it, but unless it, so to speak, glimmers through
the work, your portrait's dead."

"I don't quite understand; but sometimes things do give you an impression
you can't analyze," Dick replied.

"Well, allowing for poor workmanship, all you see here's harmonious. The
blues and purples and yellows tone, and yet, if I've got the hot glare of
the sun right, you feel that the figure's exotic and doesn't belong to
the scene. The latter really needs an olive-skinned daughter of the
passionate Sou