“I had compared them in the elevated coming down here, and was still looking at that one when a hand was laid on my arm and a man asked me what I was doing with his property. I saw he was the owner and gave it over—we had a few words and separated.”
“Was that man known to me?”
“By sight, yes.”
Joe shuddered visibly, as though he understood the suggestive words of the other.
“Then it was he?”
“Paul Prescott, the artist.”
“Curses on him for a meddler! Lillian has a weakness for art, and I have often jokingly told her she should have married a painter.”
“That explains his power in a measure—he has fed her on art and won her regard by posing as a hero.”
Joe struck the duplicate paper fiercely.
“Eric, you may think me crazy to doubt it, but unless Lillian declares in my presence that this is the product of her pen I will never believe it.”