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 *writing; bearing no date, unfortunately, or he would have known that this was written when she was a girl, about an entirely different picture.

"Is that her hand, or forgery?"

This question, uttered triumphantly, and regarded by all three as a climax, fell flat.

He met their merciless, inquisitorial gaze, now riveted on him, unflinchingly; while they fidgeted, cleared their throats, and interchanged significant looks, he stood motionless; only an unwonted pallor, and tiny bead-like drops gathering to his forehead, betokened the intensity of the struggle within.

Looking again at the note, he handed it back to one, saying, in a voice deliciously pure:

"Then I am Christ, if she is Magdalene. She is forgiven."

The companions were taken back, they had expected a more complete victory for their host.

Presently, as if his nature had nursed this crushing, profound humiliation until it almost burst forth in fury, he madly rushed toward the picture.

"Whether she did or did not pose for it, I shall rip the infernal thing from center to circumference."

An indescribable uproar arose, as he opened his knife and approached the picture. Frost's clinched fist rose in the air, and he shouted angrily: