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Updated: June 7, 2025
In truth, James Rutlidge was nearer death, at that instant, than he had ever been before. Drawing back a few fearful paces, his hands still uplifted, he said again, "Put it down, I tell you. Don't you see I'm not going to touch you? You are crazy. You might kill me."
James Rutlidge, his heavy features flushed with drink, was gazing at the girl with a look that betrayed his sensual passion. The face of Conrad Lagrange was dark and grim with scowling appreciation of the situation. Mrs. Taine was looking at the artist.
You must understand that when the disfigured mother of the baby came to know the truth, she believed that it would be better for the little one if the facts of its birth were never known. The wealthy Mr. Rutlidge could give his ward every advantage of culture and social position. The child would grow to womanhood with no stain upon her name.
Czar, on the porch, gave a low growl of disapproval; and, through the open door, they saw Mr. Taine and his wife with James Rutlidge and Louise. The novelist said something, under his breath, that had a vicious sound quite unlike his words of the moment before. Czar, in disgust, retreated to the shelter of Yee Kee's domain. With a laugh, the younger man went out to meet his friends.
"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.
"If" he always added "if he is worth saving; which remains to be seen." Always, at the Taine home, they met James Rutlidge. Frequently the celebrated critic dropped in at the cottage in the orange grove. Under the skillful management of Rutlidge, at the request of Mrs. Taine, the newspapers were already busy with the name and work of Aaron King.
To which the painter returned, "Did you notice that woman with the disfigured face, at the depot?" Conrad Lagrange looked at his companion, quickly. "Yes." "Do you know her?" questioned the artist. "No. Why do you ask?" "Only because she interested me, and because she seemed to know your friends Mr. Rutlidge and Mrs. Taine."
Creeping feebly along the lonely little path without seeing the man on the mountainside above crouching as he walked with a hunted, fearful air the poor creature moved toward the point of the spur around which the trail led beneath the spot where Rutlidge sat.
Rutlidge, this is your part of the game not mine. I did not agree to commit murder for you." "Where did you see him?" "A half mile beyond the head of the gulch, where we turn off to go to the supply point." Rutlidge, rifle in hand, stepped from the house. "You stay here and take care of the girl and see that she doesn't scream." With the last word he set out at a run.
"Quite right," agreed Mr. Rutlidge. "Whenever you are ready," said Mrs. Taine, submissively. When their friends from the Heights were gone, Conrad Lagrange looked the artist up and down, as he said with cutting sarcasm, "You did that very nicely. Over-sensitive to your environment, hell! If you are a bit fine strung, you have no business to make a show of it. It's a weakness, not a virtue.
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