ving at. He's one of the wickedest and most
unscrupulous persons in the world. Barbara ought not to speak to him,
let alone give him the run of her studio and hobnob with him same as
with one of her friends. He's a man too busy with villainy to sit as a
model for the fun of sitting. The pay doesn't interest him. And if he
shows up every morning at nine and stays all morning, it's only because
he's got an axe to grind. He talks. He lays down the law. He appeals to
Barbara's mind and imagination; and it's all rather horrible--one of
those poison snakes that look like an old rubber boot, and a bird all
prettiness, bright colors, innocence, and admiration of how the world is
made. Look at it in this way. She makes a great hit with the bust. Who's
responsible? Well, the creature that supplied the inspiration, largely.
She'll feel gratitude. He'll take advantage of anything that comes his
way. And frankly, Dr. Ferris, I may be making a mountain out of a
mole-hill, but I'm worried to death. Suppose I told you that, say, Duane
Carter spent hours every day in Barbara's studio?"

Dr. Ferris jumped to his feet, white with anger. "Do you mean to tell
me that my daughter is friendly with that person?"

"Oh, no," said Allen calmly. "I think Barbara's new friend is a very
much more dangerous person for her to know. Whatever Duane Carter is he
wouldn't dare. This other man--"

"Look here, Wilmot"--Dr. Ferris began to pace the room in considerable
agitation--"you're an old friend of Barbara's. Is friendliness at the
root of your worry, or is it some other feeling, not so disinterested as
friendship?"

Wilmot Allen rose to his full height, and Dr. Ferris paused in his
pacings. They faced each other.

"If I was any good," said the young man slowly, "if I had any money, if
Barbara would have me, I'd marry her to-morrow. But I'm not any
good--never was. I haven't any money, hardly ever have had, and Barbara
would no more have me of her own free will than she'd take a hammer and
smash the bust she's making. So much for motives. Have I disposed of
jealousy?"

Dr. Ferris nodded.

"The man," said Allen, "isn't a man. He's a gutter-dog, a gargoyle, half
a man. And his position in the city--in the whole country, I think--is
so fortified that with the best will in the world the law cannot touch
him. Duane Carter--well, he's been a gay boy with the ladies--a bad man
if you like--but at least he is not accused by gossip of murder, arson,
ab