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"Surely not" he returned calmly "you are coming to-morrow, with the others, aren't you?" Her husband with James Rutlidge and Louise Taine were invited for the next day, to view the portrait. "Oh, but that will be so different!" She loosed the wrap she wore, and threw it aside with an indescribable familiar gesture. "You don't realize what these hours have meant to me how could you?
"Or" he added as if musing upon the animal's instinct "some one we ought not to like." A bark from Czar greeted James Rutlidge who at that moment appeared at the foot of the slope leading up to their camp. The two men remembering the occasion of their visitor's last call at their home in Fairlands, when he had seen Sibyl in the studio received the man with courtesy, but with little warmth.
As the Ranger approached, he was hailed by a boisterous, "Hello, Brian! better stop and have a bite." "How do you do, Mr. Rutlidge?" came the officer's greeting, as he reined in his horse. "When did you land in the hills?" "This afternoon," answered the other. "We're just making camp. Come and meet the fellows. You know some of them."
"Indeed," said the critic, "I seem to have missed a treat." Then, directly to the artist, "And you say the violinist is wholly unknown to you?" "Wholly," returned the painter, shortly. Conrad Lagrange saw a faint smile of understanding and disbelief flit for an instant over the heavy face of James Rutlidge.
Ignoring the reference to their neighbors, the novelist replied suavely that they felt they must return to civilization as some matters in connection with the new edition of his last novel demanded his attention, and the artist wished to get back to his studio and to his work. "Really," urged Rutlidge, mockingly, "you ought not to go down now. The deer season opens in two days.
But the woman who faced him now, with full understanding, was very different from the timid, frightened girl who had not at first understood. With a business-like movement that was the result of Brian Oakley's careful training, her hand dropped to her hip and was raised again. James Rutlidge stopped, as though against an iron bar.
But I know what you said to Sibyl, here in the studio; and I overheard what you said to Mr. King, a few minutes ago. I cannot keep silent." "Proceed," said Mrs. Taine, shortly. "Say what you have to say, and be done with it." Myra Willard obeyed. "Mrs. Taine, twenty-six years ago, your guardian, the father of James Rutlidge won the love of a young girl. It does not matter who she was.
The convict reappeared, his rifle under his arm. The new-comer greeted the man whom Sibyl knew as Henry Marston, with, "Hello, George, everything all right? Where is she?" "Miss Andrés is in the cabin. When I heard you coming, I asked her to go inside, and took cover in the brush, myself, until I knew for sure that it was you." Rutlidge laughed. "You are all right, George. But you needn't worry.
"I have something to do besides making calls with you," he retorted. "Go on, Henry." Mrs. Taine spoke sharply; "Really, Jim, you are going too far. Henry, turn in at the house." The machine moved toward the curb and stopped. As she stepped from the car, she added, "I will only be a minute, Jim." Rutlidge growled an inarticulate curse. "What deviltry do you suppose she is up to now," rasped Mr.
Czar continued to manifest his sentiments until rebuked by his master. The coolness of the reception, however, in no way disconcerted James Rutlidge; who, on his part, rather overdid his assumption of pleasure at meeting them again.
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