CHAPTER XV. They had cried a little, both. Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling. Then he relaxed back a little, and let the weapon dangle from his fingers. I didn’t know that you had it that bad,” said John. ” With a murmured word of excuse she glided away, and Courtlaw, who had come with a mission which seemed to him to be one of life or death, was left to listen to the latest art jargon from Chelsea. The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. I came to see you on my own account.
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