his leave, to walk rapidly
across the big room.

As the three men went together toward the door of the studio, Fairfax
turned up an electric light. It shone brightly on them all, on
Dearborn's grave, charming face, touched with the news of the death of
the woman his friend had loved, on Cedersholm's almost livid face, on
his thick glasses, and on Antony limping at his side. Cedersholm saw the
limp, the unmistakable limp, the heavy boot, his stature, his beautiful
head, and in spite of his infirmity he saw enough of his host to make
him know him, to make him remember him, and his heart, which had begun
to ache at Fairfax's cry of Mary, seemed to die within him. He
remembered the man whom he had cheated out of his work and out of public
acknowledgment. He knew now what Fairfax meant by the repurchase of his
miserable youth. He had believed Antony Fairfax dead years ago. He had
been told that he was dead. Now he limped beside him, powerful, clever,
acknowledged, and moreover, there he stood beside him with memories that
Cedersholm would never know, with memories that linked him with Mary
Faversham-Cedersholm. In an unguarded moment that cry had escaped from
the heart of a man who must have loved her. He thought of the bas-relief
that hung always above her bed, and he thought of her silence, more
eloquent now to him even than Antony's cry, and that silence and that
cry would haunt him till the end, and the silence could never be broken
now that she had gone through the Open Door.

* * * * *

Dearborn had not been with him all day until now. He had come up radiant
to Tony, and putting his hand on his shoulder, said--

"My dear Tony, I had to come in to-day just to bring you a piece of
news--to tell you a rumour, rather. The 'Open Door' has been bought by
the Government. Your fame is made. I wanted to be the first to tell you.
I went into the Embassy for a little while to hear them talk about you,
and I can assure you that I did hear them. The ambassador himself told
me this news is official. Every one will know to-morrow."

They talked together until the morning light came grey across the panes
of the atelier, and the light was full of new creations, of new ideals
of fame and life, of new ambitions and dreams for them both. Enthralled
and inspired each by the other, the two artists talked and dreamed.
Dearborn's new play was running into its two-hundredth performance. He
was a rich man. N