ucted
him to a vast anteroom, hung with trophies of armor, and bowed him into
a second room, book-lined and businesslike, evidently the secretary's
private office, deserted now and in some confusion, as if the occupant
had left in haste. The servant crossed to a door opposite, and having
discreetly knocked and announced the distinguished visitor, bowed and
retired. The lackey would have taken Gard's overcoat and hat, but he
retained his hold upon them, as if determined that his stay should be
short.

Mahr rose to greet him, his hand extended. Gard's impedimenta seemed to
preclude the handshake, and the host hastened to insist upon his guest
being relieved.

Gard shook his head. "I have only a moment to inspect your picture,
Mahr," he said coldly.

"Oh, no, don't say that. Have a highball; you will find everything on
the table. What can I give you? This Scotch is excellent."

"No," said Gard sternly. "Excuse me; I am here for one purpose."

Mahr was chagrined, but switched on the electric lights above the canvas
occupying the place of honor on the crowded wall. The portrait stood
revealed, a jewel of color, rich as a ruby, mysterious as an autumn
night, vivid in its humanity, divine in its art, palpitating with life,
yet remote as death itself. The marvelous canvas glowed before them--a
thing to quell anger, to stifle love, to still hate itself in an impulse
of admiration.

Suddenly Marcus Gard began to laugh, as he had laughed that day long
ago, at his own discomfiture.

"What is it?" stuttered Mahr, amazed. "Don't you think it genuine?"
There was panic in his tone.

Gard laughed again, then broke off as suddenly as he had begun; and
passion thrilled in his voice as he turned fierce eyes upon his enemy.

"I am laughing at the singular role this painting has played in my life.
We have met before--the Heim Vandyke and I. If Fate chooses to turn
painter, we must grind his colors, I suppose. But what I intend to grind
first, is you, Victor Mahr! You--you cowardly hound! No--stand where you
are; don't go near that bell. It's hard enough for me to keep my hands
off you as it is!"

The attack had been so unexpected that Mahr was honestly at a loss to
account for it. He looked anxiously toward the door, remembered the
absence of his secretary and gasped in fear. He was at the mercy of the
madman. With an effort he mastered his terror.

"Don't be angry," he stammered. "Don't be annoyed with me; it's all a
mistake,