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HE third artist had not yet spoken.

He had always been somewhat of a mystery since he had been among them. By birth a Swede—by right of domicile and long residence almost as English as an Englishman, Helsinborg was already well known in art circles as a man of great genius. Pitiless, almost to cruelty, in the scathing truths he set forth upon his canvas, he was more feared than admired, even by those who praised him most loudly. He had only rented his studio for six months, as he was engaged upon a sea piece, representing a wreck on the Cornish coast.

It was finished now, and on the morrow he was to send it away for exhibition. As Norman Druce ended his story, he glanced up at the group who were regarding him expectantly.

"I fear there is nothing among my sketches worth speaking about," he said, and lifted a large portfolio from the floor as he spoke. "But you can see and select for yourself," he added, handing the case to Denis O'Hara.

The young Irishman seized it eagerly, and, sweeping the table clear from those it already contained, he emptied the portfolio of its contents, while the two other men drew near, and looked over his shoulder.

For a few moments there was silence, broken here and there by disjointed sentences and exclamations. At last Denis, still acting as spokesman, turned to the silent figure by the fire, and held out a sketch. "We have selected this," he said.

The artist looked at it a moment. A dark shadow seemed to flit over his usually pale, impassive face.

"Was that among them?" he asked, hoarsely. "I had no idea;—I mean," resuming his usual composure, "the sketch is not mine, I only copied it from a friend's picture."

"But it has a story," said Jasper Trenoweth, quietly. The eyes of the two men met. Little as they had seen of each other, little as they knew of each other's history or life, yet both seemed to recognise instinctively that in that history and life there lived the memory of some tragic past, something that for both had turned the sunshine to darkness—the joy to pain.

"Yes," said Helsinborg gravely, "there is a story a—somewhat painful and tragic one. I am not sure that I ought to tell it; but perhaps it will not matter now, the actors in the drama are both dead."

He laid the sketch down gently, almost reverently; but the dark shadow on his face seemed to grow darker, and the firm mouth seemed a little tremulous.