one on his
arm. "Call it 'The Man With the Glove,'" he said quietly. "It is the
open secret that remains unguessed."

THE LOST MONOGRAM

I

The woman seated in the light of the low, arched window was absorbed in
the piece of linen stretched on a frame before her. As her fingers
hovered over the brilliant surface, her eyes glowed with a look of
satisfaction and lighted the face, making it almost handsome. It was a
round, smooth face, untouched by wrinkles, with light-blue eyes--very
near the surface--and thin, curved lips.

She leaned back in her chair to survey her work, and her lips took on a
deeper curve. Then they parted slightly. Her face, with a look of
listening, turned toward the door.

The young man who entered nodded carelessly as he threw back the
blue-gray cloak that hung about his shoulders and advanced into the
room.

She regarded the action coldly. "I have been waiting, Albrecht." She
spoke the words slowly. "Where have you been?"

"I see." He untied the silken strings of the cloak and tossed it from
him. "I met Pirkheimer--we got to talking."

The thin lips closed significantly. She made no comment.

The young man crossed the room and knelt before a stack of canvases by
the wall, turning them one by one to the light. His full lips puckered
in a half whistle, and his eyes had a dreamy look.

The woman had returned to her work, drawing in the threads with swift
touch.

As the man rose to his feet her eyes flashed a look at the canvas in
his hand. They fell again on her work, and her face ignored him.

He placed the canvas on an easel and stood back to survey it. His lips
whistled softly. He rummaged again for brushes and palette, and mixed
one or two colors on the edge of the palette. A look of deep happiness
filled his absorbed face.

She lifted a pair of scissors and snipped a thread with decisive click.
"Are you going on with the portrait?" she asked. The tone was clear and
even, and held no trace of resentment.

He looked up absently. "Not to-day," he said. "Not to-day." His gaze
returned to the easel.

The thin lips drew to a line. They did not speak. She took off her
thimble and laid it in its velvet sheath. She gathered up the scattered
skeins of linen and silk, straightening each with a little pull, and
laid them in the case. She stabbed a needle into the tiny cushion and
dropped the scissors into their pocket. Then she rose deliberately, her
chair scraping the pol