wick, having drunk her cup of tea and eaten her wafer, rise grimly from her chair and as grimly leave their presence. Conkling surmised that she was already resolutely removing the plum-colored moire and making ready for a delayed return to her scuffle hoe.
It was not until Georgina Keswick was alone with her guest that she returned to the matter uppermost in her mind.
"You have doubtless heard of my brother, Kendal Keswick, in the art world?"
She paused, as though waiting for the name to strike home. But to Conkling it meant nothing. For a moment the tragic pale eyes in the tragic old face took on a deeper pathos.
"He was an artist himself in his time," she stiffly acknowledged. "But he was also a collector."
"He would be before my time," mercifully explained the young man, puzzled by the air of hesitancy which had overtaken the rusty old crow confronting him.
"I presume so," acknowledged the wom-
