“Yes. And you know the story of the picture of course?”
Thatcher thought he didn't. Well, no; in fact, he did not remember.
“Why, this recumbent figure was an old Spanish lover of hers, whom she believed to have been murdered there. It's a ghastly fancy, isn't it?”
Two things annoyed Thatcher: first the epithet “lover,” as applied to Concho by another man; second, that the picture belonged to him: and what the d—-l did she mean by—
“Yes,” he broke out finally, “but how did YOU get it?”
“Oh, I bought it of her. I've been a sort of patron of her ever since I found out how she stood towards us. As she was quite alone here in Washington, my mother and sister have taken her up, and have been doing the social thing.”
“How long since?” asked Thatcher.
“Oh, not long. The day she telegraphed you, she came here to know what she could do for us, and when I said nothing could be done except to keep Congress off, why, she went and DID IT. For SHE, and she alone, got that speech out of the Senator. But,” he added, a little mischievously, “you seem to know very little about her?”
“No!—I—that is—I've been very busy lately,” returned Thatcher, staring at the picture. “Does she come here often?”
“Yes, lately, quite often; she was here this evening with mother; was here, I think, when you came.”