vagabond! He married the girl."

He started to put on his waistcoat again. Hagar caught his arm and held
it. The clasp was emotional and friendly. "Will you stand so for a
moment?" he said. "Just so, that I may"--

"That you may paint in the truth? No. You are talking as the man. As an
artist you were wise to stick to your first conception. It had the heat of
inspiration. But I think you can paint me better than you have done, in
these sketches. Come, I will give you a sitting. Get your brushes. No, no,
I'll sit for nothing else than for these scenes as you have painted them.
Don't miss your chance for fame."

Without a word Hagar went to work and sketched into the second sketch
Telford's face as it now was in the candlelight--worn, strong, and with
those watchful eyes sunk deep under the powerful brows. The artist in him
became greater than the man. He painted in a cruel, sinister expression
also. At last he paused. His hand trembled. "I can paint no more," he
said.

Telford looked at the sketch with a cold smile. "Yes, that's right," he
said. "You've painted in a good bit of the devil too. You owe me something
for this. I have helped you to a picture and have given you a sitting.
There is no reason why you should paint the truth to the world. But I ask
you this: When you know that her husband is dead and she becomes your
wife, tell her the truth about that, will you? How the scoundrel tried to
kill me--from behind. I'd like to be cleared of cowardice some time. You
can afford to do it. She loves you. You will have everything, I
nothing--nothing at all."