“Yes, they do mostly. Probably he meant Taos,—whole nest of artists at Taos.”
“Well, but why in thunder then—?”
The clerk smiled skeptically.
“Why, you see, it's something like this. Miss Hastings' bent on being an illustrator, pays better than teaching, I suppose, or—well, at any rate, that's what she's aiming for,—and she has an idea that if she can only get a series of pictures,—several of them on the same subject, you understand,—accepted by one of those Eastern magazines, she can soon work in with some big publisher and get an order. She told us all about it one night last winter when she was over.”
“But in heaven's name, why Indians?” persisted Blair.
“Because she thinks she's found some good material here. She told me about that, too. Seems there's an old legend connected with Catalina, about an Indian princess and a cavern. The princess died of a broken heart or something of the sort, I believe she said. I never heard the particulars myself. Nobody else, either, seems to know anything about it. But Miss Hastings says there's quite a story, and she's got it all down pat from A to Z. She's using it for her series.”
A porter brought up some newcomers and Blair stepped aside. But the moment his man was at leisure again he cornered him at once. An idea had come to him, an idea almost dazzling in its possibilities.
“You say she hasn't finished her series yet?”
“Beg pardon? Oh, the teacher?” The man shook his head. “Evidently not from what she said just now. She never stays long enough really to put it over. Every few months she bobs up over a week-end, but that doesn't give her time even to visit some of the places she's after. She never seems to get much more than started before she has to go home again.”
For a moment Blair smoked in silence. Then: