t upon unfinished canvases, pausing finally before an easel supporting
a portrait of Shaver--newly finished, he discovered, by poking his finger
into the wet paint. Something fell to the floor and he picked up a large
sheet of drawing paper on which this message was written in charcoal:--

_Six-thirty._
_Dear Sweetheart:_--

This is a fine trick you have played on me, you dear girl! I've
been expecting you back all afternoon. At six I decided that you
were going to spend the night with your infuriated parent and
thought I'd try my luck with mine! I put Billie into the
roadster and, leaving him there, ran over to the Flemings's to
say Merry Christmas and tell 'em we were off for the night. They
kept me just a minute to look at those new Jap prints Jim's so
crazy about, and while I was gone you came along and skipped
with Billie and the car! I suppose this means that you've been
making headway with your dad and want to try the effect of
Billie's blandishments. Good luck! But you might have stopped
long enough to tell me about it! How fine it would be if
everything could be straightened out for Christmas! Do you
remember the first time I kissed you--it was on Christmas Eve
four years ago at the Billings's dance! I'm just trolleying out
to father's to see what an evening session will do. I'll be back
early in the morning.

Love always,
ROGER.

Billie was undoubtedly Shaver's nickname. This delighted The Hopper. That
they should possess the same name appeared to create a strong bond of
comradeship. The writer of the note was presumably the child's father and
the "Dear Sweetheart" the youngster's mother. The Hopper was not reassured
by these disclosures. The return of Shaver to his parents was far from
being the pleasant little Christmas Eve adventure he had imagined. He had
only the lowest opinion of a father who would, on a winter evening,
carelessly leave his baby in a motor-car while he looked at pictures, and
who, finding both motor and baby gone, would take it for granted that the
baby's mother had run off with them. But these people were artists, and
artists, The Hopper had heard, were a queer breed, sadly lacking in
common sense. He tore the note into strips which he stuffed into his
pocket.

Depressed by the impenetrable wall of mystery along which he was groping,
he retu