seeching face, she saw only
that it was the face of an old man, broken and terrified, and that
even through its gray terror it showed the love of which he talked.

Her hand fell gently on his shoulder.

"I am sorry--about your daughter," she said, softly.

St. John straightened, and spoke more steadily.

"The story is not ended. In those days, it was almost starvation. No
one would buy my pictures. No one would buy her verse. The one source
of revenue we might have had was what Marston sought to give us, but
that she would not accept. She said she had not married him for
alimony. He tried often and in many ways, but she refused. Then, he
left. He had done that before. No one wondered. After his absence had
run to two years, I was in Spain, and stumbled on a house, a sort of
_pension_, near Granada, where he had been painting under an assumed
name, as was his custom. Then, he had gone again--no one knew where.
But he had left behind him a great stack of finished canvases. _Mon
dieu_, how feverishly the man must have worked during those
months--for he had then been away from the place almost a year. The
woman who owned the house did not know the value of the pictures. She
only knew that he had ordered his rooms reserved, and had not
returned, and that rental and storage were due her. I paid the
charges, and took the pictures. Then, I investigated. My
investigations proved that my surmise as to his death was correct. I
was cautious in disposing of the pictures. They were like the diamonds
of Kimberley, too precious to throw upon the market in sufficient
numbers to glut the art-appetite of the world. I hoarded them. I let
them go one or two at a time, or in small consignments. He had always
sold his pictures cheaply. I was afraid to raise the price too
suddenly. From time to time, I pretended to receive letters from the
painter. I had then no definite plan. When they had reached the
highest point of fame and value, I would announce his death. But,
meanwhile, I discovered the work young Saxon was doing in America. I
followed his development, and I hesitated to announce the death of
Marston. An idea began to dawn on me in a nebulous sort of way, that
somehow this man's work might be profitably utilized by substitution.
At first, it was very foggy--my idea--but I felt that in it was a
possibility, at all events enough to be thought over--and so I did not
announce the death of Marston. Then, I realized that I could
supplem