Said Conrad Lagrange—­“It is all so easy.”

Once or twice, the artist or his friend had seen the woman of the disfigured face; and the novelist still tried in vain to fix her in his memory.  Every day, they heard, in the depths of the neighboring orange grove, the music of that unseen violin.  They spoke, often, in playful mood, of the spirit that haunted the place; but they made no effort to solve the mystery of the carefully tended rose garden.  They knew that whoever cared for the roses worked there only in the early morning hours; and they carefully avoided going into the yard back of the house until after breakfast.  They felt that an investigation might rob them of the peculiar humor of their fancy—­a fancy that was to them, both, such a pleasure; and gave to their home amid the orange-trees and roses such an added charm.

But the other member of the trio of friends was not so reticent.  Czar had formed an—­to his most proper dogship—­unusual habit.  Frequently, when the three were sitting on the porch in the evening, he would rise suddenly from his place beside his master’s chair, and walking sedately to the side of the porch facing that neighboring gable and chimney, would stand listening attentively; then, without so much as a “by-your-leave,” he would leap to the ground, and vanish somewhere around the corner of the house.  Later, he would come sedately back; greeting each, in turn, with that insistent thrust his soft muzzle against a knee; and assuring them, in the wordless speech of his expressive, brown eyes, that his mission had been a most proper one, and that they might trust him to make no foolish mistakes that would mar the peace and harmony of their little household.  The men never failed to agree with him that it was all right.  In fact, so fully did they trust him that they never even stepped to the corner of the porch to see where he went; nor would they leave their chairs until he had returned.

Upon those days when Mrs. Taine came to the studio,—­being always careful that Louise accompanied her as far as the house,—­Conrad Lagrange vanished.  The man swore by all the strange and wonderful gods he knew—­and they were many—­that he feared to spend an hour with that effervescing young female devotee of the Arts—­lest the mountains in their wrath should fall upon him.

But that day, when Mrs. Taine came for the last sitting, the novelist—­engaged in interesting talk with the artist—­forgot.

“You are caught,” cried the painter, gleefully, as the big automobile stopped at the gate.

“I’ll be damned if I am,” retorted the novelist, with no profane intent but with meaning quite literal; and, seizing a book, he bolted through the kitchen—­nearly upsetting the startled Yee Kee.

“What’s matte’,” inquired the Chinaman, putting his head in at the living-room door; his almond eyes as wide as they could go, with an expression of celestial consternation that convulsed the artist.  Catching sight of the automobile, his oriental features wrinkled into a yellow grin of understanding; “Oh! see um come!  Ha!  I know.  He all time go, she come.  He say no like lagtime gal.  Dog Cza’, him all time gone, too; him no like lagtime—­all same Miste’ Laglange.  Ha!  I go, too,” and he, in turn, vanished.