plays over the sleeping
face of that figure, yet brings out by very contrast its almost
death-like repose. Those rocks are powerfully handled; what a suggestion
of mystery in those shadows! You know the painter?"

Thatcher murmured, "Miss De Haro," with a new and rather odd
self-consciousness in speaking her name.

"Yes. And you know the story of the picture of course?"

Thatcher thought he didn't. Well, no; in fact, he did not remember.

"Why, this recumbent figure was an old Spanish lover of hers, whom she
believed to have been murdered there. It's a ghastly fancy, isn't it?"

Two things annoyed Thatcher: first the epithet "lover," as applied to
Concho by another man; second, that the picture belonged to him: and
what the d---l did she mean by--

"Yes," he broke out finally, "but how did YOU get it?"

"Oh, I bought it of her. I've been a sort of patron of her ever since
I found out how she stood towards us. As she was quite alone here in
Washington, my mother and sister have taken her up, and have been doing
the social thing."

"How long since?" asked Thatcher.

"Oh, not long. The day she telegraphed you, she came here to know what
she could do for us, and when I said nothing could be done except to
keep Congress off, why, she went and DID IT. For SHE, and she alone, got
that speech out of the Senator. But," he added, a little mischievously,
"you seem to know very little about her?"

"No!--I--that is--I've been very busy lately," returned Thatcher,
staring at the picture. "Does she come here often?"

"Yes, lately, quite often; she was here this evening with mother; was
here, I think, when you came."

Thatcher looked intently at Harlowe. But that gentleman's face betrayed
no confusion. Thatcher refilled his glass a little awkwardly, tossed off
the liquor at a draught, and rose to his feet.

"Come, old fellow, you're not going now. I shan't permit it," said
Harlowe, laying his hand kindly on his client's shoulder. "You're out of
sorts! Stay here with me to-night. Our accommodations are not large,
but are elastic. I can bestow you comfortably until morning. Wait here a
moment while I give the necessary orders."

Thatcher was not sorry to be left alone. In the last half hour he had
become convinced that his love for Carmen de Haro had been in some way
most dreadfully abused. While HE was hard at work in California, she was
being introduced in Washington society by parties with eligible brothers
who bought