It was James Rutlidge.
Sibyl, occupied with her childlike delight, had failed to hear the
automobile when it stopped in front of the house. Finding no one in the
house the man had gone on to the studio, where--with the assurance of an
intimate acquaintance--he had pushed open the door that was standing ajar.
At the girl's frightened manner, the man laughed. Closing the door, he
said, with an insinuating sneer, "You were not expecting me, it seems."
His words aroused Sibyl from her momentary weakness. Rising, she said
calmly, "I was not expecting any one, Mr. Rutlidge."
Again he laughed--with unpleasant meaning. "You certainly look to be very
much at home." He moved confidently to the easel stool and, seating
himself continued with a leering smile, "What's the matter with my taking
the artist's place for a little while--at least, until he comes?"
The girl was too innocent to understand his assumption but her pure mind
could not fail to sense the evil in his words.
"I had permission to come here this afternoon," she said--her voice
trembling a little with the fear that she did not understand. "Won't you
go, please? Neither Mr. King nor Mr. Lagrange are at home."
"I do not doubt your having permission to come here," he returned, with
meaning stress upon the word, "permission".
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