The man answered before he thought--"But I don't like people to read my books."
She shrank back, with troubled eyes, "Oh! is he--is he that kind of an artist?"
"No, no, no!" exclaimed the novelist, hastily. "You must not think that. I did not mean you to think that. If he was that kind of an artist, I wouldn't let you go into the studio at all. Mr. King is a good man--the best man I have ever known. He is my friend because he knows the secret about me that you know. He does not read my books. He would not read one of them for anything. It is only that this picture is not finished. When it is finished, he will not care who sees it."
"I'm glad," she said. "You frightened me, for a minute--I understand, now."
"And you promise not to look at the picture on the easel?"
She nodded,--"Of course. And when I come out I'll lock the door and put the key back on the gate again; and no one but you and I will ever know."
"No one but you and I will know," he answered.
As he spoke, Czar, who had been lying quietly in the doorway of the arbor, rose quickly to his feet, with a low growl.
The girl, peering through the screen on the side toward the house, uttered an exclamation of fear and drew back, turning to her companion appealingly. "O please, please don't let that man find me here."
Conrad Lagrauge looked and saw James Rutlidge coming down the path toward the arched entrance to the garden, which was directly across from the arbor.