She turned over the sketches in the big portfolios that were so invitingly open; looked with awe upon the brushes stuck in the big Chinese jar--upon the palettes, and at the tubes of color; flitting to the window that looked out upon her garden, and back to the great, north light with its view of the distant mountains; and again and again, paused to stand with her hands clasped behind her, in front of the big easel with its canvas hidden under the velvet curtain.

Then she must try the chairs, the oriental couch, and even the stool--where she had seen the artist sitting, sometimes, at his work, when she had watched him from the arbor; and last--in a pretty make believe--she tried the seat on the model throne, as though posing herself, for her portrait.
Suddenly, with a startled cry, she sprang to her feet; then shrank back, white and trembling--her big eyes fixed with pleading fear upon the man who stood in the open doorway, regarding her with a curious, triumphant smile.

It was James Rutlidge.
Sibyl, occupied with her childlike delight, had failed to hear the automobile when it stopped in front of the house.

Finding no one in the house the man had gone on to the studio, where--with the assurance of an intimate acquaintance--he had pushed open the door that was standing ajar.
At the girl's frightened manner, the man laughed.

Closing the door, he said, with an insinuating sneer, "You were not expecting me, it seems." His words aroused Sibyl from her momentary weakness.