"I want no artist in my family," he sternly said; "they are all a shiftless and unreliable lot, and one was never known to make a woman happy. Their attachments are as fleeting as their artistic conceptions."
"Such argument will not move us. You know, father, I have some of your blood in my veins, and our race has always been stubborn."
The old man looked on his daughter with admiration, and going over to where she sat, he kissed her tenderly.
"Now you are like the dear old dad you used to be." She gently stroked his gray hair, and fondling him softly, said: "And you won't be angry with my Milton any more?"
"You sly pus; just like your mother was," and the hardened man of the world breathed a touching sigh, in the memory of a past that was fraught with delicious happiness, but which had gone forever.
"Not meaning to change the subject, my dear girl, but about a month ago I received a large mass of legal documents from Russia, which conveyed information of a very valuable character to a Russian lad, whose father had abandoned him here in New York City. I have had a horde of detectives employed, and they have been unable thus far to locate him. The last news is contained in a report today, that a person of that description was employed somewhere in an art studio. Now, you get around among this class of cattle quite often. His name is Paul—"
"Paul Strogoff?"
"Yes. Do you know anything about him?"
"Yes. He is employed by Ouida Angelo as a model."
"Good. The fee in the case shall be yours."
