stood up. He was a short, slight man, small and withered as an old persimmon, his blue eyes wearing a perpetually frosty gaze.
In the little town of Hammondville, Winters was by far the wealthiest—as well as the most hated. His loans bordered upon usury—and those who could not pay were given no mercy. He had caused more than one suicide, and a very appreciable amount of misery and suffering. A wizened, dried-up little spider he was, who spun his web carefully, showing not the slightest pity to those unfortunate enough to fall into it.
Just now, contrary to his usual satisfaction when foreclosing a mortgage, he felt curiously frustrated. Perhaps—he had not made enough profit this time.
"Young man," his voice was thin and sharp, "three months ago you came to me with a desperate plea for money—on my terms. As security, I was given a small bit of sculpture, unfinished at that." His voice hardened. "It is not my usual policy to be so generous—"
"Generous!" The young sculptor's face twisted. His voice was bitter. "You speak of generosity! The Dawn Child—my statue. Seventy-five dollars! Finished, I could very easily sell that statue for—"
"For some considerable sum, I suppose?" Winters' words dripped cold. "Remember. The statue is incomplete. I may have a hard time disposing of it, for that very reason."
He frowned petulantly.
The young man stared at Winters as if seeing him for the first time. Slowly Winters flushed, and his eyes fell under that penetrating gaze.
"So," De Roults said softly. "I might have known."
He straightened, drew a deep breath, and looked at Winters again. "It is absolutely useless to ask for more time, I see."
"Absolutely," Winters said, some of his poise returning to him.
"Then—" Two spots of color appeared in the young man’s cheeks. "Then, sir, may I see the statue? May I? Just once, since it is for the last time."
There was no harm in letting him see it. Winters shrugged. "Why not?"
Hhe made his way toward the back of the study, where he opened the door to a closet. De Roults followed him slowly. In one corner of the closet stood a shapeless something on a pedestal, draped in a sheet.
"Your statue, young man." Winters turned sideways, and lifted the sheet. In spite of himself, a small glint of appreciation came to his eyes as he looked at the statue.
It was the nude figure of a child. Exquisitely carved, it was, in pink marble, life size. The statue stood on tiptoe, a smile on its rosy face—a childish, contented smile, both arms stretching skyward, as to greet the sun.
But the hands—they were unfinished. The fingers were crudely blocked out—rough, like marble mittens. Evidently, some work was needed before the whole was completed.
But even as it was, the statue was beautiful. Winters, in spite of himself, had to admit that. Unconsciously, his fingers caressed the marble in a possessive gesture. He turned to look at the young man.
De Roults was standing there, leaning against the door jamb, gazing at the statue intently. There was an odd expression on his face—a strained, rapt expression.
"But it is unfinished," he breathed. "It is unfinished."
"Eh?" said Winters sharply.
De Roults started. He turned slowly, and looked at Winters. He looked then, at the statue, caressing it with his eyes.
