"His
father was the worst I ever knew, and he's like him. Forget him. Here
comes the delivery boy with our stuff. Let's overhaul the outfit. I hope
they'll get here with that burro, before dark. Where'll we put him, in the
studio, heh?"
"Look here,"--said the artist a few minutes later, returning from a visit
to the studio for something,--"this is what was the matter with Rutlidge.
And you did it, old man. This is your key."
"What do you mean?" asked the other in confusion taking the key.
"Why, I found the studio door wide open, with your key in the lock. You
must have been out there, just before we left this morning, and forgot to
shut the door. Rutlidge probably noticed it when he was prowling about the
place, and was trying to roast me for my carelessness."
Conrad Lagrange stared stupidly at the key in his hand. "Well I _am_
damned," he muttered. Then added, in savage and--as it seemed to the
artist--exaggerated wrath, "I'm a stupid, blundering, irresponsible old
fool." Nor was he consoled when the painter innocently assured him that no
harm had resulted from his carelessness.
That night, as the two men sat on the porch, watching the last of the
light on the mountain tops, they heard again the cry of fear and pain that
came from the little house hidden in the depths of the orange grove.
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