“If you did, I give you my word of honor I couldn’t tell you. I only wish I knew!”
There was silence between them for a moment; then the painter broke out with the air of one who takes a resolution:
“See here, Kent! You’re a sort of detective, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been called so.”
“And you like my picture of The Rough Rider?”
“Five hundred dollars’ worth.”
“You can have that and any other picture in my studio, except this one,” he indicated the canvas with the faces, “if you’ll find out for me who she is.”
“That might be done. We shall see. But frankly, Sedgwick, there’s a matter of more importance—”
“Importance? Good heavens, man! There’s nothing so important in this world!”
“Oh, is it as bad as that?”