“Yes! yes! yes! draw the curtain.” Robert watched eagerly, while the other guests shouted in his ear. “Let us see! brave man, let us see!” As they watched the canvas the drapery fell to one side. “My wife! Great God!” Robert felt the horror stricken tremor in his own exclamation. There played on Willard Frost’s face a satanic smile, while a momentary exultation thrilled him. “She kindly posed for this, my greatest effort,” returned Frost, still smiling. Robert controlled every muscle in his countenance; no fire broke from his steadfast, scornful eyes; but there was a kingly authority in the aspect--the almost stately crest and power in the swell of the stern voice--which awed the lookers on. With that locked and rigid countenance, with arms folded, he stood confronting the other artist, who advanced toward him with menacing brow. “Willard Frost, this is a lie! and I demand you to prove it. You villain! you dastard! you coward! Fall on your knees, you cur, and ask God to forgive you, lest you are suddenly called to face your black account.” Frost strove to be scornful, but his lips trembled, and his voice died in hollow murmurs in his breast. “Answer me, I demand proof!” cried Robert, looking upon him with a crushing and intense disdain. “I know, Milburn, you will hate me; but acknowledge, we are at last even,” said the other. “No! I do not believe it! By the eternal powers, my wife would not stoop so low as this model indicates. I must have proof.” “Then, sir, you shall!” and Frost’s eyes flashed a lightning glance of triumph. “Gentlemen, I do not like to bring you into this little unpleasantness, but what do you know of this?” “We know that Mrs. Milburn has often been to the studio, and we, moreover, have seen her when you were at work on the picture. But the man surely knows his own wife; this is a speaking likeness.” “Besides, here’s a note where she asked that the matter be kept a dead secret.” Robert looked at the paper, it was her handwriting; bearing no date, unfortunately, or he would have known that this was written when she was a girl, about an entirely different picture. “Is that her hand, or forgery?” This question, uttered triumphantly, and regarded by all three as a climax, fell flat. He met their merciless, inquisitorial gaze, now riveted on him, unflinchingly; while they fidgeted, cleared their throats, and interchanged significant looks, he stood motionless; only an unwonted pallor, and tiny bead-like drops gathering to his forehead, betokened the intensity of the struggle within. Looking again at the note, he handed it back to one, saying, in a voice deliciously pure: “Then I am Christ, if she is Magdalene. She is forgiven.” The companions were taken back, they had expected a more complete victory for their host. Presently, as if his nature had nursed this crushing, profound humiliation until it almost burst forth in fury, he madly rushed toward the picture.