"What are you driving at, monsieur? What is your object in inventing a story like this?"
"It is no invention. If you did not know it, perhaps you guessed it; only you choose conveniently to shut your eyes."
"Can you prove the truth of what you say?" asked the other sharply, and heedless of the latter allegation.
"I was in the shop at the time. Jacob told me all about it when she had gone out."
"You? You actually saw her there?"
"Certainly I did—and she is quite aware of the fact."
It flashed upon Alaric at once that this might be the explanation of their meeting the previous evening.
"She wishes to keep her secret, I imagine—and you have threatened to betray it to me?"
"No; I did not threaten. She wanted me to promise, and I wouldn't do that, for I was determined to find out the truth. I begin to think now that it is news to you. Well, you need not let out I told you. But where does she get the money? Has she really means of her own? Is there not some—some other man in it?"
The painter turned sharply away. He took three or four rapid strides up and down the room. He knew that the Jew, blackguard as he was, had not lied. He also knew that his own position, from which there was no escape, was one of bitter humiliation. Men of the stamp of Melchior—nay, perhaps many better than he—would always believe that he, Alaric Baring, had knowingly allowed his sister's friend to sacrifice some portion of her small capital in the purchase of his picture. Oh, why had she done this thing? That slender fabric of
