that she glanced in his direction, half inquiringly, with a suggestion of being pleased, as though she were glad to have seen him in company with her celebrated friend.  Then the man who held so large a place in the eyes of the world drew back, lifting his hat; the automobile started forward; the party called, “Good night.”  The woman’s voice rose clear—­so that the spectators might easily understand—­“Remember, Mr. Lagrange—­I shall expect you Thursday—­day after to-morrow.”

As Conrad Lagrange came up the hotel steps, the eyes of all were upon him; but he—­apparently unconscious of the company—­went straight to the artist; where, without a word, he dropped into the vacant chair by the young man’s side, and began thoughtfully refilling his brier pipe.  Flipping the match over the veranda railing, and expelling a prodigious cloud of smoke, the novelist said grimly, “And there—­my fellow artist—­go your masters.  I trust you observed them with proper reverence.  I would have introduced you, but I do not like to take the initiative in such outrages.  That will come soon enough.  The young should be permitted to enjoy their freedom while they may.”

Aaron King laughed.  “Thank you for your consideration,” he returned, “but I do not think I am in any immediate danger.”

“Which”—­the other retorted dryly—­“betrays either innocence, caution, or an unusual understanding of life.  I am not, now, prepared to say whether you know too much or too little.”

“I confess to a degree of curiosity,” said the artist.  “I traveled in the same Pullman with three of the party.  May I ask the names of your friends?”

The other answered in his bitterest vein; “I have no friends, Mr. King—­I have only admirers.  As for their names”—­he continued—­“there is no reason why I should withhold either who they are or what they are.  Besides, I observed that the reigning ‘Goddess’ in the realm of ‘Modern Art’ has her eye upon you, already.  As I shall very soon be commanded to drag you to her ‘Court,’ it is well for you to be prepared.”

The young man laughed as the other paused to puff vigorously at his brier pipe.

“That red-faced, bull-necked brute, is James Rutlidge, the son and heir of old Jim Rutlidge,” continued the novelist.  “Jim inherited a few odd millions from his father, and killed himself spending them in unmentionable ways.  The son is most worthily carrying out his father’s mission, with bright prospects of exceeding his distinguished parent’s fondest dreams.  But, unfortunately, he is hampered by lack of adequate capital—­the bulk of the family wealth having gone with the old man.”

“Do you mean James Rutlidge—­the great critic?” exclaimed Aaron King, with increased interest.