Mr. Hamlin did not laugh, but quietly slipped the photograph into his
pocket. Yet, perhaps, it had not been recognized.

Then Sophy proposed to have luncheon in the studio; it was quite
"Bohemian" and fashionable, and many artists did it. But to her great
surprise Jack gravely objected, preferring the little parlor of Aunt
Chloe, the vine-fringed windows, and the heavy respectable furniture.
He thought it was profaning the studio, and then--anybody might come in.
This unusual circumspection amused them, and was believed to be part of
the boyish awe with which Jack regarded the models, the draperies, and
the studies on the walls. Certain it was that he was much more at his
ease in the parlor, and when he and Sophy were once more alone at their
meal, although he ate nothing, he had regained all his old naivete.
Presently he leaned forward and placed his hand fraternally on her arm.
Sophy looked up with an equally frank smile.

"You know I promised to let bygones be bygones, eh? Well, I intended it,
and more,--I intended to make 'em so. I told you I'd never speak to you
again of that man who tried to run you off, and I intended that no one
else should. Well, as he was the only one who could talk--that meant
him. But the cards are out of my hands; the game's been played without
me. For he's dead!"

The girl started. Mr. Hamlin's hand passed caressingly twice or thrice
along her sleeve with a peculiar gentleness that seemed to magnetize
her.

"Dead," he repeated slowly. "Shot in San Diego by another man, but not
by me. I had him tracked as far as that, and had my eyes on him, but it