As Fairfax took his car to go down to Ninth Street, he said to himself-- "If _this_ is the first sentimental history on which I am to embark, it lacks romance from the start." CHAPTER XX At the studio he was informed by Cedersholm's man, Charley, that his master was absent on a long voyage. "He has left me a letter, Charley, a note?" "Posted it, no doubt, sir." Charley asked Mr. Fairfax if he had been ill. Charley was thoroughly sympathetic with the Southerner, but he was as well an excellent servant, notwithstanding that he served a master whom he did not understand. "I should like to get my traps in the studio, Charley." "Yes, Mr. Fairfax." But Charley did not ask him in. "I'll come back again to-morrow.... I'll find a note at home." "Sure to, Mr. Fairfax." "Benvenuto been around?" The Italian had sailed home to Italy on the last week's steamer. Fairfax, too troubled and dazed to pursue the matter further, did not comprehend how strange it all was. The doors of the studio were henceforth shut against him, and Charley obeyed the mysterious orders given him. There reigned profound mystery at the foundry. The young man was sensible of a reticence among the men, who lacked Charley's kindliness. Every one waited for Cedersholm's orders. The _Beasts_ were cast. "Look out how you treat those moulds," he fiercely ordered the men. "Those colossi belong to me. What's the damage for casting them?" At the man's response, Fairfax winced and thrust his hands into his empty pockets. Under his breath he said: "Damn Cedersholm for a cold-blooded brute! My youth and my courage have gone into these weeks here." As he left the foundry he repeated his injunction about the care of the moulds, and his personal tenderness for the bronze creatures was so keen that he did not appreciate the significant fact that he was treated with scant respect. He stepped in at the Field palace on the way up-town, and a man in an official cap at the door asked him for his card of admission. "Card of admission? Why, I'm one of the decorators here.... I reckon you're new, my boy. I only quit working a fortnight ago." He was nervous and pale; his clothes were shabby. "Sorry," returned the man, "my orders are strict from Mr. Cedersholm himself. _Nobody_ comes in without his card." The sculptor ground his heel on the cruel stones.