* * * * *

Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange were returning from town.  As they neared their home, they saw one of the Taine automobiles in front of the house.  “Company,” said the artist with a smile—­thinking of his letter to the millionaire.

“It’s Rutlidge,” said the novelist—­noting the absence of the chauffeur.

They were turning in at the entrance, when Czar—­who had dashed ahead as if to investigate—­halted, suddenly, with a low growl of disapproval.

“Huh!” ejaculated Conrad Lagrange, with his twisted grin.  “It’s Senior ‘Sensual’ all right.  Look at Czar; he knows the beast is around.  Go fetch him, Czar.”

With an angry bark, the dog disappeared around the corner of the porch.  The two men, following, were met by Rutlidge who had made his way back through the grove and the rose garden from the house next door.  The dog, with muttering growls, was sniffing suspiciously at his heels.

“Czar,” said his master, suggestively.  With a meaning glance, the dog reluctantly ceased his embarrassing attentions and went to see if everything was all right about the premises.

In answer to their greeting and the quite natural question if he had been waiting long, Rutlidge answered with a laugh.  “Oh, no—­I have been amusing myself by prowling around your place.  Snug quarters you have here; really, I never quite appreciated their charm, before.”

They seated themselves on the porch.  Conrad Lagrange—­thinking of Sibyl Andres and that letter which he had left on the gate—­from under his brows, watched their caller closely; the while he filled with painstaking care his brier pipe.

“We like it,” returned the artist.

“I should think so—­I’d be sorry to leave it if I were you.  Mr. Taine tells me you are going to the mountains.”

“We’re not giving up this place, though,” replied Aaron King.  “Yee Kee stays to take care of things until our return.”

“Oh, I see.  I generally go into the mountains, myself for a little hunt when the deer season opens.  It may be that I will run across you somewhere.  By the way—­you haven’t met your musical neighbor yet, have you?”

The novelist gave particular attention to his pipe which did not seem to be behaving properly.

The artist answered shortly, “No.”

“I’d certainly make her acquaintance, if I were you,” said Rutlidge, with his suggestive smile.  “She is a dream.  A delightful little retreat—­that studio of yours.”

The painter, puzzled by the man’s words and by his insinuating air, returned coldly, “It does very well for a work-shop.”

The other laughed meaningly; “Yes, oh yes—­a great little work-shop.  I suppose you—­ah—­do not fear to trust your art treasures to the Chinaman, during your absence?”

Conrad Lagrange—­certain, now, that the man had seen Sibyl Andres either entering or leaving the studio—­said abruptly, “You need give yourself no concern for Mr. King’s studio, Rutlidge.  I can assure you that the treasures there will be well protected.”