"That is not true," she said. "It couldn't be helped. It was written. He told me everything. He asked me to forget, and I held him--because we loved each other. He could no more help it than he could help being himself, fulfilling his genius when he thought he was following another man. There are just some things--" she halted a moment, and shook her head--"some things," she went on quietly, "that are bigger than we are." "But, now----" He stopped. "But, now--" the quiet of her words hurt the man more than tears could have done--"now, his real life has claimed him--the life that only loaned him to me." The telephone jangled suddenly, and Steele, whose nerves were all on edge, started violently at the sound. Mechanically, he took up the instrument from its table-rack, and listened. "Yes, this is Mr. Steele. What? Mr. St. John? Tell him I'll see him down there--to wait for me." Steele was about to replace the receiver, when Duska's hand caught his wrist. "No," she said quickly, "have him come here." "Wait. Hold the wire." The man turned to the girl. "Duska, you are only putting yourself on the rack," he pleaded. "Let me see him alone." She shook her head with the old determination. "Have him come here," she repeated. "Send Mr. St. John up," ordered the Kentuckian. One might have seen from his eyes that, when Mr. St. John arrived, his reception would be ungracious. The man felt all the stored-up savagery born of his helpless remonstrance. It must have some vent. Every one and everything that had contributed to her misery were alike hateful to him. Had he been able to talk to Saxon just then, his unreasoning wrath would have poured itself forth as readily and bitterly as on St. John. The sight of the agent standing in the door a few moments later, inoffensive, even humble, failed to mollify him. "I shall have the two pictures delivered within the next day," ventured the Englishman. Steele turned brutally on the visitor. "Do you mean to risk remaining in Paris now?" he demanded. At the tone, St. John stiffened. He was humble because these people had been kind. Now, meeting hostility, he threw off his lowly demeanor. "Why, may I ask, should I leave Paris?" There was a touch of delicately shaded defiance in the questioning voice. "Because, now, you must reckon with Mr. Saxon for pirating his work! Because he may choose to make you walk the plank." Steele whipped out his answer in rapid, angry sentences. St. John met the eyes of the Kentuckian insolently. "Pardon the suggestion that you misstate the case," he said, softly. "I have never sold a picture as a Marston that was not a Marston--it would appear that unconsciously I was, after all, honest. As for Mr. Saxon, there is, it seems, no Mr. Saxon. That gentleman was entirely mythical. It was an alias, if you please." It was Steele who winced now, but his retort was contemptuously cool: "Do you fancy Mr. Marston will accept that explanation?"