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He heard the outer door open, then immediately Hagar entered the room and came forward to where he sat. The artist was astonished, and for the instant embarrassed. Telford rose. “I took the liberty of waiting for you, and, seeing the pictures, was interested.”

Hagar bowed coldly. He waved his hand toward the pictures. “I hope you find them truthful.”

“I find them, as I said, interesting. They will make a sensation. And is there anything more necessary? You are a lucky man, and you have the ability to take advantage of it. Yes, I greatly admire your ability. I can do that, at least, though we are enemies, I suppose.”

His words were utterly without offense. A melancholy smile played on his lips. Again Hagar bowed, but did not speak.

Telford went on. “We are enemies, and yet I have done you no harm. You have injured me, have insulted me, and yet I do not resent it, which is strange, as my friends in a wilder country would tell you.”

Hagar was impressed, affected. “How have I injured you? By painting these?”

“The injury is this: I loved a woman and wronged her, but not beyond reparation. Years passed. I saw her and loved her still. She might still have loved me, but another man came in. It was you. That was one injury. Then”–He took up a candle and held it to the sketch of the discovery. “This is perfect in its art and chivalry. It glorifies the girl. That is right.” He held the candle above the second sketch. “This,” he said, “is admirable as art and fiction. But it is fiction. I have no hope that you will change it. I think you would make a mistake to do so. You could not have the situation, if the truth were painted. Your audience will not have the villain as the injured man.”

“Were you the injured man?”

Telford put the candle in Hagar’s hand. Then he quickly took off his coat, waistcoat and collar and threw back his shirt from his neck behind.

“The bullet wound I received on that occasion was in the back,” he said. “The other man tried to play the assassin. Here is the scar. He posed as the avenger, the hero, and the gentleman. I was called the coward and the vagabond! He married the girl.”

He started to put on his waistcoat again. Hagar caught his arm and held it. The clasp was emotional and friendly. “Will you stand so for a moment?” he said. “Just so, that I may”–

“That you may paint in the truth? No. You are talking as the man. As an artist you were wise to stick to your first conception. It had the heat of inspiration. But I think you can paint me better than you have done, in these sketches. Come, I will give you a sitting. Get your brushes. No, no, I’ll sit for nothing else than for these scenes as you have painted them. Don’t miss your chance for fame.”

Without a word Hagar went to work and sketched into the second sketch Telford’s face as it now was in the candlelight–worn, strong, and with those watchful eyes sunk deep under the powerful brows. The artist in him became greater than the man. He painted in a cruel, sinister expression also. At last he paused. His hand trembled. “I can paint no more,” he said.

Telford looked at the sketch with a cold smile. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “You’ve painted in a good bit of the devil too. You owe me something for this. I have helped you to a picture and have given you a sitting. There is no reason why you should paint the truth to the world. But I ask you this: When you know that her husband is dead and she becomes your wife, tell her the truth about that, will you? How the scoundrel tried to kill me–from behind. I’d like to be cleared of cowardice some time. You can afford to do it. She loves you. You will have everything, I nothing–nothing at all.”