estion and nodding toward the admiring group; "that's the
prizewinner--over there."

Mary Louise edged her way through the crowd until the great picture was
in full view; and then she drew a long breath, awestruck, delighted,
filled with a sense of all-pervading wonder.

"It's a tremendous thing!" whispered a man beside her to his companion.
"There's nothing in the exhibit to compare with it. And how it breathes
the very spirit of California!"

"California?" thought Mary Louise. Of course; those yellow poppies and
lacy pepper trees with their deep red berries were typical of no other
place. And the newspaper had called Jason Jones a California artist.
When had he been in California, she wondered. Alora had never mentioned
visiting the Pacific Coast.

Yet, sometime, surely, her father must have lived there. Was it while
Alora was a small child, and after her mother had cast him off? He
could have made sketches then, and preserved them for future use.

As she stood there marveling at the superb genius required to produce
such a masterpiece of art, a strange notion crept stealthily into her
mind. Promptly she drove it out; but it presently returned; it would
not be denied; finally, it mastered her.

"Anyhow," she reflected, setting her teeth together, "I'll beard the
wolf in his den. If my intuition has played me false, at worst the man
can only sneer at me and I've always weathered his scornful moods. But
if I am right----"

The suggestion was too immense to consider calmly. With quick, nervous
steps she hastened to the Congress Hotel and sent up her card to Jason
Jones. On it she had written in pencil: "I shall wait for you in the
parlor. Please come to me."

CHAPTER XXIV
AN INTERRUPTION

"Before you sign this promissory note," remarked Janet Orme, as Alora
reluctantly seated herself at the table, "you must perform the other
part of your agreement and give me the present address of your father,
Jason Jones."

"He lives in Dorfield," said Alora.

"Write his street number--here, on this separate sheet."

The girl complied.

"Is it a private house, or is it a studio?"

"A cottage. Father doesn't paint any more."

"That is very sensible of him," declared the nurse; "yet I wonder how
he can resist painting. He has always had a passion for the thing and
in the old days was never happy without a brush in his hand. He had an
idea he could do something worth while, but that was mere delusion, for
he never