“Oh, I’m rich enough,” said the other impatiently. “I told you I’d made inventions. And I can certainly afford to buy it better than you can afford to keep it here.” “What’s that?” asked the painter, surprised. Kent repeated his final sentence, with slow emphasis. “Do you understand what I mean?” he asked, looking flatly into Sedgwick’s eyes. “No, not in the least. Another suggestion of mystery. Do you always deal in this sort of thing?” “Very seldom. However, if you don’t understand so much the better. When did you finish this picture?” “Yesterday.” “H-m! Has any one else seen it?” “That old fraud of a plumber, Elder Dennett, saw me working on it yesterday, when he was doing some repairing here, and remarked that it gave him the creeps.” “Dennett? Well, then that’s all up,” said Kent, as if speaking to himself. “There’s a streak of superstition in all these New Englanders. He’d be sure to interpret it as a confession before the fact. However, Elder Dennett left this morning for a trip to Cadystown. That’s so much to the good.” “He may have left for a trip to Hadestown for all I care,” stated Sedgwick with conviction. “What’s it all about, anyway?” “I’ll tell you, as soon as I’ve mulled it over a little. Just let me cool my mind down with some more of your pictures.” He turned to the wall border again, and faced another picture out. “What’s this? You seem to be something of a dab in black and white, too.” “Oh, that’s an imaginary face,” said Sedgwick carelessly. “Imaginary face studied from various angles,” commented Kent. “It’s a very lovely face, and the most wistful I’ve ever seen. A fairy, prisoned on earth by cockcrow, might wear some such expression of startled wondering purity, I fancy.” “Poetry as well as mystery! Kent, you grow and expand on acquaintance.” “There is poetry in your study of that imaginary fay. Imaginary! Um-hum!” continued Kent dryly, as he stooped to the floor. “I suppose this is an imaginary hairpin, too.” “My Chinaman—” began Sedgwick quickly, when the other caught him up. “Don’t be uneasy. I’m not going to commit the _bêtise_ of asking who she is.” “If you did, I give you my word of honor I couldn’t tell you. I only wish I knew!” There was silence between them for a moment; then the painter broke out with the air of one who takes a resolution: “See here, Kent! You’re a sort of detective, aren’t you?” “I’ve been called so.” “And you like my picture of _The Rough Rider_?” “Five hundred dollars’ worth.” “You can have that and any other picture in my studio, except this one,” he indicated the canvas with the faces, “if you’ll find out for me who she is.” “That might be done. We shall see. But frankly, Sedgwick, there’s a matter of more importance—” “Importance? Good heavens, man! There’s nothing so important in this world!” “Oh, is it as bad as that?”