"His miracle is his color," announced the first disciple, briefly. "The black and white gives no idea. As to his personality, it seems to be that of the _poseur_--almost of the snob. His very penchant for frequent wanderings incognito and revealing himself only through his work is in itself a bid for publicity. He arrogates to himself the attributes of traveling royalty. For my master as the man, I have small patience. It's the same affectation that causes him to sign nothing. The arrogant confidence that no one can counterfeit his stroke, that signature is superfluous." Steele laughed. "Why not show him that some one can do it?" he suggested. "Why not send over an unsigned canvas as a Marston, and drag him out of his hiding place to assert himself and denounce the impostor?" "Let him have his vanities," Saxon said, almost contemptuously. "So long as the world has his art, what does it matter?" He turned and stepped from the low porch, whistling as he went. The stranger strolled along with a free stride and confident bearing, tempted by each vista, yet always lured on by other vistas beyond. At last, he halted near a cluster of huge boulders. Below him, the creek reflected in rippled counterpart the shimmer of overhanging greenery. Out of a tangle of undergrowth beyond reared two slender poplars. The middle distance was bright with young barley, and in the background stretched the hills in misty purple. There, he set up his easel, and, while his eyes wandered, his fingers were selecting the color tubes with the deft accuracy of the pianist's touch on the keys. For a time, he saw only the thing he was to paint; then, there rose before his eyes the face of a girl, and beyond it the sinister visage of the South American. His brow darkened. Always, there had lurked in the background of his thoughts a specter, some Nemesis who might at any moment come forward, bearing black reminders--possible accusations. At last, it seemed the specter had come out of the shadow, and taken the center of the stage, and in the spotlight he wore the features of Senor Ribero. He had intended questioning Ribero, but had hesitated. The thing had been sudden, and it is humiliating to go to a man one has never met before to learn something of one's self, when that man has assumed an attitude almost brutally hostile from the outset. The method must first be considered, and, when early that morning he had inquired about the diplomat, it had been to learn that a night train had taken the man to his legation in Washington. He must give the problem in its new guise reflection, and, meanwhile, he must live in the shadow of its possible tragedy. There was no element of the coward's procrastination in Saxon's thoughts. Even his own speculation as to what the other man might have been, had never suggested the possibility that he was a craven.