ris I found the weather too cold
for my chest complaint. So I said to myself, 'I will make endeavor to
find the artist, John Clare.' But how? I had an idea. I went to the
school of the great Julian, and there my inquiries met with success.
'Monsieur Clare,' one of the instructors told me, 'is now a prosperous
painter of London, by the name of Vernon.' They gave me the address of
a magazine in your Rue Paternoster, and at that place I was this morning
informed where to find you. I trust that my visit is not an intrusion."

"Oh, not at all," said Jack. "Who at Julian's can have known so much
about me?" he thought.

"I have spoken with freedom--perhaps too much," M. Marchand went on.
"But I desired to explain clearly. I have come on business, monsieur,
hoping that I may be privileged to purchase one or two pictures to take
back with me to Paris."

"I am very sorry," said Jack, "but I fear I have nothing whatever to
sell at present. I am indeed flattered by your kind interest in my work."

"Monsieur has nothing?"

Jack shook his head.

"You see I do a great deal in the way of magazine drawing," he
explained. "The half-finished water-colors on the easels are orders.
I expect to have a large painting in the Royal Academy shortly."

"Alas, I will not be able to see it," M. Marchand murmured. "I leave
London to-morrow." All the time he was speaking he had been looking with
interest about the studio, and his eyes still wandered from wall to
wall. "Ah, monsieur, I have a thought," he added suddenly. "It is of the
finished pictures, of your later work, that you speak. But surely you
possess many sketches, and among them would be some of Paris, such as
you placed with Jacques Cambon. Is it not so?"

Jack, in common with all artists, was reluctant to part with his
sketches. But he was growing uncomfortably hungry, and felt disposed to
make a sacrifice for the sake of getting rid of his importunate visitor.

"I will show you my collection," he answered briefly.

Lifting the drapery of a couch, he pulled out one of half a dozen fat
portfolios, of huge dimensions. He untied the strings and opened it,
exhibiting a number of large water-color drawings on bristol-board, most
of them belonging to his student days in Paris, some made in Holland and
Normandy. The sight of them, recalling his married life with Diane,
awoke unpleasant memories. He moved away and lighted a cigarette.

The Frenchman began to turn the sketches over ea