“And yet you know it angers me beyond expression.” “And, I think, sir, without reason. You have not a word to say against Milton’s character, and because you had trouble with his father before we were born, you want to make us miserable.” “Now, Marie, you know that is not all. I want you to marry a man worthy of you.” “Then let me have Milton,” she pleaded. “I want no artist in my family,” he sternly said; “they are all a shiftless and unreliable lot, and one was never known to make a woman happy. Their attachments are as fleeting as their artistic conceptions.” “Such argument will not move us. You know, father, I have some of your blood in my veins, and our race has always been stubborn.” The old man looked on his daughter with admiration, and going over to where she sat, he kissed her tenderly. “Now you are like the dear old dad you used to be.” She gently stroked his gray hair, and fondling him softly, said: “And you won’t be angry with my Milton any more?” “You sly puss; just like your mother was,” and the hardened man of the world breathed a touching sigh, in the memory of a past that was fraught with delicious happiness, but which had gone forever. “Not meaning to change the subject, my dear girl, but about a month ago I received a large mass of legal documents from Russia, which conveyed information of a very valuable character to a Russian lad, whose father had abandoned him here in New York City. I have had a horde of detectives employed, and they have been unable thus far to locate him. The last news is contained in a report today, that a person of that description was employed somewhere in an art studio. Now, you get around among this class of cattle quite often. His name is Paul--” “Paul Strogoff?” “Yes. Do you know anything about him?” “Yes. He is employed by Ouida Angelo as a model.” “Good. The fee in the case shall be yours.” “Cash?” cried out the mercenary little wretch. “Yes, cash,” said the delighted father, and he forthwith went into the safe and brought a roll of bank notes, which he gave to Marie. “Do you desire a receipt for this,” she said, with a smile. “No,” said Mr. Salmon, “but you might tell your old dad what you are going to do with so much money.” “No, I cannot do that,” she replied, with assumed fear. “Going to waste it on your staff of paupers?” “No.” “New dress?” “No.” “Pray, what then?” “Going to buy Milton a birthday present,” as in a mocking fit of laughter she skipped through the door and vanished from the office. “The little devil has tricked me,” he said, but there was no anger in his tone. CHAPTER VII. OUIDA WILL NOT BE INTERVIEWED.