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��Si ranger than Fiction.
��lier ktch-key there, and it 's gone."
" Oh ! " was all I said.
'•' I always look, then I have some idea how long I shall have to wait for my meals."
"Then you wait? "
" Always."
" Oh ! "
'• Come up to my studio. I have some prime cigars, and I can treat you to iced lemonade, or hot coffee, as you choose."
I noticed the carpets, the statues, the paintings, as I went up and up, and I came to the conclusion that Winn, or som.e one else, had a plenty of money and to spare : they were superb.
At last he threw open the studio door and we entered. It was a cosy retreat, I can tell you, and contained my partic- ular object of admiration, an open fire- place with a glowing fire therein ; upon the hob was a tiny coffee-pot and upon a litde stand a delicious lunch, which, later, I helped him dispatch. I drew near the fire, and spread my hands, over the grateful warmth, for it was a cold day. As I did so, I raised my eyes and fairly held my breath in mute admiration. Before me was a picture ; I recognized it instantly as Winn Stemley's work, but the beauty, the pathetic beauty of that face ! I never saw quite such an exquisite countenance, and I never ex- pect to see another just like it. It was a woman of perhaps twenty-five years, seated m a huge crimson chair ; her robe was of pale-blue satin, and over hei head and shoulders was draped a shawl of seemingly priceless point lace. Hei face lay against the crimson back- ground, her hair was of a purple black, and heavy lashes lay upon the creamy palloi of her cheeks ; her lips were tinted like the heart of a sea shell. But oh ! the sweet, bHssful repose of that face. Jack, it haunts me still. In her hands, and trailing over the blue satin
��of ner dress, were great bunches o\ creamy roses.
I know not how long I stood there in silent, mute admiration, but when I did move, and turn to Winn, the look upon his face was a revelation.
" There is a story to that picture?" I asked. He nodded, and turned away. I was sorry that I had spoken, but a moment after he said :
" Yes, one of the strangest out of fic- tion. Help me eat this lunch ; and by and by, over our cigars, I will tell it to you."
I needed no urging, I assure you, for the lunch was delicious, and the prom- ise of a story at the end was a splendid appetizer.
As he told the story to me, I will, with his consent, write it to you, know- ing the trouble you have in concocting original plots. He began :
" I was slowly descending my steps one morning in early May, wondering upon which of my acquaintances I should in- flict my company, for I had only re- turned the morning before, on the Parthia, from Europe. I had put my studio in order, paid my respects to my family, and now time hung heavily upon my hands. As I was pondering my destination in my mind, the door of the next house but one opened hastily, and a man ran down the steps. As he came by me he raised his eyes ; it was Eail Melville, but pale and haggard, with eyes still moist with recently-shed tears. He grasped my hands with hands that scorched as they touched, as he ex- claimed in tones of greatest relief:
" The very man I want ! J did not know you had returned bur thank God you are here ! "
" What can I do for you, Earl ; you are ill."
" Oh ! never mind me, I want you. I have a strange task for vou. Mr.
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