yet remote as death itself. The marvelous canvas glowed before them--a
thing to quell anger, to stifle love, to still hate itself in an impulse
of admiration.

Suddenly Marcus Gard began to laugh, as he had laughed that day long
ago, at his own discomfiture.

"What is it?" stuttered Mahr, amazed. "Don't you think it genuine?"
There was panic in his tone.

Gard laughed again, then broke off as suddenly as he had begun; and
passion thrilled in his voice as he turned fierce eyes upon his enemy.

"I am laughing at the singular role this painting has played in my life.
We have met before--the Heim Vandyke and I. If Fate chooses to turn
painter, we must grind his colors, I suppose. But what I intend to grind
first, is you, Victor Mahr! You--you cowardly hound! No--stand where you
are; don't go near that bell. It's hard enough for me to keep my hands
off you as it is!"

The attack had been so unexpected that Mahr was honestly at a loss to
account for it. He looked anxiously toward the door, remembered the
absence of his secretary and gasped in fear. He was at the mercy of the
madman. With an effort he mastered his terror.

"Don't be angry," he stammered. "Don't be annoyed with me; it's all a
mistake, you know. Are you--are you feeling quite well? Do let me give
you something--a--a glass of champagne, perhaps. I'll call a servant."

Gard's smile was so cruel that Mahr's worst fears were confirmed. But