t as
she put it away, a sudden quick exclamation from Robert Barton made her
look at him.

He was staring at the picture. "Why, it is my own work," he said, with
a flush of pleasure. "The picture I painted at Beyrout, and that I
sold for a mere song. Of course the fellow cheated me, he was a mean
sort of chap; but it is not so bad after all. And what's
this?--'Goddard.' Well, of all the cads! He has put his own name to
it, but I swear I painted it. Abdul and his son Hassan were my models.
Oh, I see by your face that you like it, Mrs. Luttrell. I don't think
myself that I ever did anything better. Isn't it Carlyle that says
'Genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains.' Well, I took lots
of pains with that picture. I meant to get it into the Royal Academy,
but ill-luck obliged me to sell it."

"You painted that picture of the Prodigal Son!" exclaimed Olivia,
excitedly.

"Oh, yes, I painted it all right. It was a nasty trick of Goddard's
putting his name to it. Look, that was Abdul's wife, the one with the
distaff; the other two were two women I saw sitting under a palm-tree
one evening. Well, your old gentleman has sent it to the right person
to touch it up. It shall be done to-morrow before I go."

Olivia was so full of this wonderful piece of intelligence that she
could hardly wait until Phoebe had closed the library door. "Oh, Mr.
Gaythorne," she exclaimed, "what do you think! Your beautiful picture
of the Prodigal Son is Mr. Barton's work. Goddard is only the name of
the man who bought it. Yes," as Mr. Gaythorne looked very much
astonished at this. "You will not call him the gentlemanly tramp any
longer, now that he is a real artist."

"Look here, Mrs. Luttrell," he said, abruptly, "I don't believe all
this. You are being gulled. Goddard painted that picture, not Barton;
I hate imposition. I daresay the fellow can paint in a pretty
amateurish sort of way, and he will be able to do my job, but I am not
going to swallow this without proof. Tell him to bring the picture
back himself, and you can come too if you like. If he has been
imposing on your credulity I shall very soon detect him." But Olivia
was indignant at this.

"Of course he shall bring back the picture if you wish it," she said, a
little stiffly. "And I shall ask him to bring the sketch of Dot, too,
and then you will see for yourself how well he paints, but he is no
impostor, I am certain of that;" but as usual Mr. Ga