“I shall have the two pictures delivered within the next day,” ventured the Englishman.
Steele turned brutally on the visitor.
“Do you mean to risk remaining in Paris now?” he demanded.
At the tone, St. John stiffened. He was humble because these people had been kind. Now, meeting hostility, he threw off his lowly demeanor.
“Why, may I ask, should I leave Paris?” There was a touch of delicately shaded defiance in the questioning voice.
“Because, now, you must reckon with Mr. Saxon for pirating his work! Because he may choose to make you walk the plank.”
Steele whipped out his answer in rapid, angry sentences.
St. John met the eyes of the Kentuckian insolently.
“Pardon the suggestion that you misstate the case,” he said, softly. “I have never sold a picture as a Marston that was not a Marston—it would appear that unconsciously I was, after all, honest. As for Mr. Saxon, there is, it seems, no Mr. Saxon. That gentleman was entirely mythical. It was an alias, if you please.”
It was Steele who winced now, but his retort was contemptuously cool: