atched the stream of life flowing along
the Grand Boulevard. Almost unconsciously he yielded to the spell of a
familiar jargon, well knowing he had been inspired in every touch
while striving frenziedly to give permanence to a fleeting vision. He
filled his pipe, and surveyed the detective with a quickened interest.

Furneaux gazed long and earnestly.

"Perfect!" he murmured, after that rapt pause. "Such a portrait, too,
without any apparent effort! Just compare the cold sunlight on the
statue with the same light falling on wet skin. Of course, Mr.
Trenholme, you'll send this to the Salon. Burlington House finds
satiety in Mayors and Masters of Fox Hounds."

"Good, isn't it?" agreed Trenholme. "What a cursed spite that it must
be consumed in flame!"

"But why?" cried Furneaux, unfeignedly horrified.

"Dash it all, man, I can never copy it. And you wouldn't have me
blazon that girl's face in a gallery after today's tragedy!"

The detective snapped his fingers.

"Poof!" he said. "I shall have Mr. Fenley's murderer hanged long
before your picture is hung. London provides one front-rank tragedy a
week, but not another such masterpiece in ten years. Burn it because
of a sentiment! Perish the thought."

"If I had guessed you were coming here so promptly it would have been
in ashes an hour ago," said Trenholme, grimly insistent on sacrifice.

With a disconcerting change of manner the detective promptly assumed a
dryly official attitude.

"A mighty good job for you that nothing of the sort occurred," he
said. "Your picture is your excuse, Mr. Trenholme. What plea could you
have urged for spying on a lady in an open-air bath if deprived of the
only valid one?"

"Look here!" came the angry retort. "You seem to be a pretty fair
judge of a drawing, but you choose your words rather carelessly. Just
now you described me as 'hidden' behind that clump of trees, and again
you accuse me of 'spying.' I won't stand that sort of thing from
Scotland Yard, nor from Buckingham Palace, if it comes to that."

Furneaux instantly reverted to his French vein. His shrug was
eminently Parisian.

"You misunderstand me. I allege neither hiding nor spying on your
part. Name of a good little gray man! The President of the Royal
Academy would hide and spy for a month if he could palliate his
conduct by that picture. But, given no picture, what is the answer?
Reflect calmly, Mr. Trenholme, and you'll see that mine are words of
wisdom. Burn