"
Aaron King thought of those bones, picked bare by the carrion birds, at
the foot of the cliff. "It seems to be one of the mysteries of the day,"
he said. "Commonplace enough, no doubt, if one only had the key to it."
Mrs. Taine had evidently not been in Fairlands long enough to hear the
story of Sibyl's disappearance--for which the artist mentally gave thanks.
"I am glad for one thing," continued the woman, her mind intent upon the
main purpose of her call. "Jim had already written a splendid criticism of
your picture--before he went away--and I have it. All this newspaper talk
about him will only help to attract attention to what he has said about
_you._ They are saying such nice things of him and his devotion to art,
you know--it is all bound to help you." She waited for his approval, and
for some expression of his gratitude.
"I fear, Mrs. Taine," he said slowly, "that you are making a mistake."
She laughed nervously, and answered with forced gaiety. "Not me. I'm too
old a hand at the game not to know just how far I dare or dare not go."
"I do not mean that"--he returned--"I mean that I can not do my part. I
fear you are mistaken in me."
Again, she laughed.
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