"I shall have to come back some other time for that," he replied; "I must hurry off now to keep my appointment with Mr. Dunlap." He started toward the door; but suddenly facing Sprague again, he held out his hand to the artist, who pressed it cordially. "Good-bye, old man," he said affectionately; "be as sensible as you can, and don't wantonly play with the fire." And before Sprague could frame an answer, the reporter was gone. The artist remained thoughtfully standing until his friend's footsteps had died away in the distance. Then he turned and walked slowly into the studio. Here, in the middle of the room, stood an easel, upon which was the portrait of a beautiful young girl. Sprague gazed at it long and earnestly. Then he heaved an almost inaudible sigh. "Sturgis is right," he said to himself, turning away at last, "and----and I am a confounded idiot!" CHAPTER VII. AGNES MURDOCK. In a quarter of the city which is rapidly surrendering to the relentless encroachments of trade, there still stand a few old-fashioned houses, the sole survivors of what was once an aristocratic settlement. One by one their fellows have been sapped and swept away by the resistless tide of commerce, until these ancient dwellings, stubbornly contesting a position already lost, now rear their sepulchral brown-stone fronts in stiff and solitary grandeur--huge sarcophagi in a busy mart. One of these houses stands well back from the street line, the traditional backyard of the ordinary New York dwelling having been sacrificed, in this instance, to make room for a tiny garden, which is separated from the street by a tall spiked iron railing, behind which grows an arborvitæ hedge. The former serves as a defence against the marauding of the irrepressible metropolitan gamin; while the latter confers upon the occupants of the garden a semblance of protection from the curious gaze of the passers-by. This property, having been the subject of an interminable lawsuit, had remained for many years unoccupied, and was even beginning to be regarded by some of the neighbors as haunted, when at last it was bought by Doctor Murdock, a wealthy widower with an only daughter. For some months masons and carpenters were at work; and then, one day, the new occupants entered into possession. The Murdocks lived quietly but luxuriously, like people accustomed to wealth. They had their horses and carriages, their house at Lenox and at Newport, and their yacht. Their circle of acquaintances was large, and included not only the fashionable set, but also a scientific, literary and artistic set. For Doctor Murdock was a chemist of national reputation, a member of several scientific bodies, and a man of great intelligence and broad culture.