“But I say, emphatically, that this is a picture of Mrs. Milburn—the other has nothing to do with this,” cried the enraged artist.
“And I say, with the same emphasis, it is a d—— lie; the face was made from Mrs. Milburn’s picture, and the form—you paid another five hundred dollars to sit for it.”
“And pray, who is this individual?” questioned Frost, carelessly.
“Yes, who is she?” cried his companions.
The tumult became so great that an ordinary tone could not be heard at all.
“Who is she? Who is she?”
“Men, have patience, I am in no hurry,” said Marrion, as he leveled a revolver at the party.
“Now, Robert, old boy, let the good work go on.”
“Bless you, Latham, by your help I will,” and he plunged the knife into the canvas.
Frost uttered a tremendous oath, and shouted: