Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 39).djvu/496

His preoccupation was so great that an automobile, rounding a corner, missed him by inches as he crossed the road. The chauffeur shouted angrily at him as he leapt back.

"Conscious of a dull longing for sympathy."

Paul shook his fist at the retreating lights.

"Pig!" he shouted. "Assassin! Scoundrel! Villain! Would you kill me? I will take your number, rascal. I will inform the police. Villain!"

A policeman had strolled up and was eyeing him curiously. Paul turned to him, full of his wrongs.

"Officer," he cried, "I have a complaint. These pigs of chauffeurs! They are so reckless. They drive so recklessly. Hence the great number of accidents."

"Awful!" said the policeman. "Pass along, sonny."

Paul walked on, fuming. It was abominable that these chauffeurs—— And then an idea came to him. He had found a way.

 

It was quiet in the Park. He had chosen the Park because it was dark and there would be none to see and interfere. He waited long in the shadow at the roadside. Presently from the darkness there came the distant drone of powerful engines. Lights appeared, like the blazing eyes of a dragon swooping down to devour its prey.

He ran out into the road with a shout.

It was an error, that shout. He had intended it for an inarticulate farewell to his picture, to Jeanne, to life. It was excusable in the driver of the motor that he misinterpreted it. It seemed to him a cry of warning. There was a great jarring of brakes, a scuttering of locked wheels on the dry road, and the car came to a standstill a full yard from where he stood.

"What the deuce——" said a cool voice from behind the lights.

Paul struck his chest and folded his arms.

"I am here," he cried. "Destroy me!"

"Let George do it," said the voice, in a marked American accent. "I never murder on a Friday; it's unlucky. If it is not a rude question, which asylum are you from? Halloa!"

The exclamation was one of surprise, for Paul's nerves had finally given way, and he was now in a heap on the road, sobbing.

The man climbed down and came into the light. He was a tall young man with a pleasant, clean-cut face. He stooped and shook Paul.

"Quite that," he said. "Maybe it's not true. And if it is, there's always hope. Cut it out. What's the matter? All in?"

Paul sat up, gulping convulsively. He was thoroughly unstrung. The cold, desperate mood had passed. In its place came the old feeling of desolation. He was a child, aching for sympathy. He wanted to tell his troubles. Punctuating his narrative with many gestures and an occasional gulp, he proceeded to do so. The American listened attentively.

"So you can't sell your picture, and you've lost your job, and your girl has shaken you?" he said. "Pretty bad, but still you've no call to go mingling with automobile wheels. You come along with me to my hotel, and to-morrow we'll see if we can't fix up something."

 

There was breakfast at the hotel next morning, a breakfast to put heart into a man. During the meal a messenger dispatched in a cab to Paul's lodgings returned with the canvas. A deferential waiter informed the American that it had been taken with every possible care to his suite.

"Good," said the young man. "If you're through, we'll go and have a look at it."

They went upstairs. There was the picture, resting against a chair.

"Why, I call that fine," said the young man. "It's a cracker-jack."

Paul's heart gave a sudden leap. Could it be that here was the wealthy connoisseur? He was wealthy, for he drove an automobile and lived at an expensive hotel. He was a connoisseur, for he had said that the picture was a cracker-jack.

"Monsieur is kind," murmured Paul.

"It's a bear-cat," said the young man, admiringly.

"Monsieur is flattering," said Paul, dimly perceiving a compliment.

"I've been looking for a picture like that," said the young man, "for months."

Paul's eyes rolled heavenwards.

"If you'll make a few alterations, I'll buy it and ask for more."

"Alterations, monsieur?"

"One or two small ones." He pointed to