“Whether she did or did not pose for it, I shall rip the infernal thing from center to circumference.” An indescribable uproar arose, as he opened his knife and approached the picture. Frost’s clinched fist rose in the air, and he shouted angrily: “Do it and die!” “I am no coward; I am not afraid of your threats,” he returned coldly. “But it is madness!” the other roared, “I am surrounded by friends; you have none here.” “By heavens he has!” said a voice behind them. “Marrion Latham!” came from every tongue. “Yes, and the most unwelcome guest you ever entertained. This is all a base, cowardly lie, and I came to tell you,” he hissed to the others, as he caught Robert by the hand. “My friend,” cried Robert, “forgive me the injustice I have done you; I could kneel and beg it of you.” “I am not warrior, priest or king--only brother,” he said earnestly. “You contemptible cur; dare you say Cherokee Milburn was not my model and my--” “Yes, I do dare; even the first thing you ever led her into was a deception, and the baby face that swings above you there on the wall is the same face you hid away when misfortune overtook her--to die in the slums--and that one was your own child.” “But I say, emphatically, that this is a picture of Mrs. Milburn--the other has nothing to do with this,” cried the enraged artist. “And I say, with the same emphasis, it is a d---- lie; the face was made from Mrs. Milburn’s picture, and the form--you paid another five hundred dollars to sit for it.” “And pray, who is this individual?” questioned Frost, carelessly. “Yes, who is she?” cried his companions. The tumult became so great that an ordinary tone could not be heard at all. “Who is she? Who is she?” “Men, have patience, I am in no hurry,” said Marrion, as he leveled a revolver at the party. “Now, Robert, old boy, let the good work go on.” “Bless you, Latham, by your help I will,” and he plunged the knife into the canvas. Frost uttered a tremendous oath, and shouted: “I’ll kill you both for that!” “Now, to complete the scene we should have the real model here--would that please you?” said Marrion, aggravatingly. “Yes, produce her if you can.” He walked to the door and opened it; no one spoke; all seemed riveted to the spot. Who should walk in but Mrs. Milburn’s maid, Annie Zerner. “You bought her, Frost, but she sells you.” Then turning to the woman, Marrion asked: “Did you pose for this man’s picture?” “Yes, sir, and----” A fierce glance from the artist, Willard Frost, kept her from ending the sentence. “D---- you! I’ll finish you.” “Wait!” cried a firm, but sweet voice. Willard Frost stepped back in dismay. The doorway framed the form and beautiful, indignant face of Cherokee Milburn. [Illustration: “‘Wait!’ cried a firm, but sweet voice.” Page 229.]