appening to
glance ahead, when not far from home, he saw, at a distance of twenty
yards, a man whom he took for Norbert Franks. The artist was coming
toward him, but suddenly he turned round about, and walked rapidly
away, disappearing in a moment down a side street. Franks it certainly
was; impossible to mistake his figure, his gait; and Warburton felt
sure that the abrupt change of direction was caused by his friend's
desire to avoid him. At the end of the byway he looked, and there was
the familiar figure, marching with quick step into the rainy distance.
Odd! but perhaps it simply meant that Franks had not seen him.

He reached home, wrote some letters, made preparations for leaving town
by an early train next morning, and dined with his customary appetite.
Whilst smoking his after-dinner pipe, he thought again of that queer
little incident in Grosvenor Road, and resolved of a sudden to go and
see Franks. It still rained, so he took advantage of a passing hansom,
and drove in a few minutes to the artist's lodging on the south side of
Battersea Park. The door was opened to him by the landlady, who smiled
recognition.

"No, sir, Mr. Franks isn't at home, and hasn't been since after
breakfast this morning. And I don't understand it; because he told me
last night that he'd be working all day, and I was to get meals for him
as usual. And at ten o'clock the model came--that rough man he's
putting into the new picture, you know, sir; and I had to send him
away, when he'd waited more than an hour."

Warburton was puzzled.

"I'll take my turn at waiting," he said. "Will you please light the gas
for me in the studio?"

The studio was merely, in lodging-house language, the first floor
front; a two-windowed room, with the advantage of north light. On the
walls hung a few framed paintings, several unframed and unfinished,
water-colour sketches, studies in crayon, photographs, and so on. In
the midst stood the easel, supporting a large canvas, the artist's work
on which showed already in a state of hopeful advancement. "The
Slummer" was his provisional name for this picture; he had not yet hit
upon that more decorous title which might suit the Academy catalogue. A
glance discovered the subject. In a typical London slum, between small
and vile houses, which lowered upon the narrow way, stood a tall,
graceful, prettily-clad young woman, obviously a visitant from other
spheres; her one hand carried a book, and the other was he