stop him, but Gregg's voice rang out
clear:

"Keep your hands off! Out he goes, if I have to throw him downstairs.
Stand back, all of you--" and with a mighty effort he caught the
younger and apparently stronger man under the armpits and hurled him
through the open doorway.

For some seconds no one spoke. The suddenness of the attack, the
uncontrollable anger of the distinguished painter--so gentle and
forbearing always--the tremendous strength of the man; the cowering
look on Hartman's face--a look that plainly told of his guilt--had
stunned every one in the room.

Gregg broke the silence. He had locked the door on Hartman and was
again in his chair by the table, a flushed face and rumpled shirt the
only marks of the encounter.

"I owe you an apology, gentlemen," he said, adjusting his cuffs and
speaking in the same voice with which he would have asked for a match
to light his cigar. "I did not intend to disturb the meeting, but
there are some things I cannot stand. We have curs prowling around in
society, walking in and out of decent homes, trusted and believed in,
that are twice as dangerous as mad dogs. Hartman is one of them. When
they bite they kill. The only way is to shut your doors in their
faces. That I shall do whenever one crosses my path. And now, if you
will excuse me, I will ask one of you to fill my place and let me go
back to my studio. I have an appointment at four, as I told you this
morning, and I'm late."

Once in the corridor he stepped to the rail, looked over the banisters
as if in expectation of seeing the object of his wrath, and slowly
mounted the stairs to his studio. As he approached the velvet curtain
he heard through the half-closed door a heavy step. Some one was
walking about inside. Was Hartman waiting for him to renew the
conflict? he wondered. Pushing aside the curtain he stepped boldly in.

On the mat before the fire, with his back to the door, his eyes fixed
on Olivia's portrait, stood a young man he had never seen before. As
the overhead light fell on his glossy hair and over his clean-shaven
face and well-groomed body, Gregg noticed that he belonged to the
class of prosperous business men of the day. This was not only
apparent in the way his well-cut clothes fitted his slender
body--perfect in appointment, from the bunch of violets in his
button-hole to his polished shoes--but in his quick movements.

"Have I made a mistake?" the young man asked in a crisp, decisive
voic