"Work--work ?" he said at last, looking up, "ah, if I could only begin!" He glanced round the room a moment and his eye encountered on the mantel-shelf the vivid physiognomy of Mr.Barnaby Striker.

His smile vanished, and he stared at it with an air of concentrated enmity.

"I want to begin," he cried, "and I can't make a better beginning than this! Good-by, Mr.Striker!" He strode across the room, seized a mallet that lay at hand, and before Rowland could interfere, in the interest of art if not of morals, dealt a merciless blow upon Mr.Striker's skull.

The bust cracked into a dozen pieces, which toppled with a great crash upon the floor.

Rowland relished neither the destruction of the image nor his companion's look in working it, but as he was about to express his displeasure the door opened and gave passage to a young girl.