ink of it as a blind and brutal hand which required a victim and
reached out over the city to find one. The hand fell upon you. There is
no more to say. You can only resign yourself to die an unknown death."

He said at last: "Not unknown, thank God. I have something which will
live after me."

Her heart leaped, for she was seeing once more the artist from
Rembrandt's brush.

"Yes, your paintings will not be forgotten."

"I feel that they will not, and the name of--"

"Do not speak of it!"

"Why?"

"I must not hear your name."

"But you know it already. You spoke of my painting."

"I have never seen your face; I have never heard your name; you were
brought to me in this room darkened as you find it now."

"Yet you knew--"

Her voice was marvelously low: "I touched your face, sir, and in some
way I knew."

After a time he said: "I believe you. This miracle is no greater than
the others. But why do you not wish to know my name?"

"I may live after you, and when I see your pictures I do not wish to
say: 'This is his work; this is his power; this is his limitation.' Can
you understand?"

"I will try to."

"I sat beside you while you were unconscious, and I pictured your face
and your mind for myself. I will not have that picture reduced to
reality."

"It is a delicate fancy. You are blind? You see by the touch of your
hands?"

"I am not blind, but I think I have seen your face through the touch."

"Here! I have stumbled against two chairs. Let us sit down and talk. I
will slide this chair farther away if you wish. Do you fear me?"

"No, I think I am not afraid. I am only very sad for you. Listen: I have
laid down the revolver. Is that rash?"

"_Madame_, my life has been clean. Would I stain it now? No, no! Sit
here--so! My hand touches yours--you are not afraid?--and a thrill leaps
through me. Is it the dark that changes all things and gives eyes to
your imagination, or are you really very beautiful?"

"How shall I say?"

"Be very frank, for I am a dying man, am I not? And I should hear the
truth."

"You are a profound lover of the beautiful?"

"I am a painter, _madame_."

She called up the image of her face--the dingy brown hair, long and
silken, to be sure; the colorless, small eyes; the common features which
the first red-skinned farmer's daughter could overmatch.

"Describe me as you imagine me. I will tell you when you are wrong."

"May I touch you, _madame_, as you touched me? Or w