James Rutlidge understood the warning conveyed in the novelist’s words that, to Aaron King, revealed nothing.

“Really,” said the painter to their caller, “you are not uneasy for the safety of Mrs. Taine’s portrait, are you, old man?  If you are, of course—­”

“Damn Mrs. Taine’s portrait!” ejaculated the man, rising hurriedly.  “You know what I mean.  It’s all right, of course.  I must be going.  Hope you have a good outing and come back to find all your art treasures safe.”  He laughed coarsely, as he went down the walk.

When the automobile was gone, the artist turned to his friend.  “Now what in thunder did he mean by that?  What’s the matter with him?  Do you suppose they imagine that there is anything wrong because I wouldn’t turn over the picture?”

“He is an unclean beast, Aaron,” the novelist answered shortly.  “His father was the worst I ever knew, and he’s like him.  Forget him.  Here comes the delivery boy with our stuff.  Let’s overhaul the outfit.  I hope they’ll get here with that burro, before dark.  Where’ll we put him, in the studio, heh?”

“Look here,”—­said the artist a few minutes later, returning from a visit to the studio for something,—­“this is what was the matter with Rutlidge.  And you did it, old man.  This is your key.”

“What do you mean?” asked the other in confusion taking the key.

“Why, I found the studio door wide open, with your key in the lock.  You must have been out there, just before we left this morning, and forgot to shut the door.  Rutlidge probably noticed it when he was prowling about the place, and was trying to roast me for my carelessness.”

Conrad Lagrange stared stupidly at the key in his hand.  “Well I am damned,” he muttered.  Then added, in savage and—­as it seemed to the artist—­exaggerated wrath, “I’m a stupid, blundering, irresponsible old fool.”  Nor was he consoled when the painter innocently assured him that no harm had resulted from his carelessness.

That night, as the two men sat on the porch, watching the last of the light on the mountain tops, they heard again the cry of fear and pain that came from the little house hidden in the depths of the orange grove.  Wonderingly they listened.  Once more it came—­filled with shuddering terror.

When the sound was not repeated, Conrad Lagrange thoughtfully knocked the ashes from his pipe.  “Poor soul,” he said.  “Those scars did more than disfigure her beautiful face.  I’ll wager there’s a sad story there, Aaron.  It’s strange how I am haunted by the impression that I ought to know her.  But I can’t make it come clear.  Heigho,”—­he added a moment later as if to free his mind from unpleasant thoughts,—­“I’ll be glad when we are safely up in the hills yonder.  Do you know, old man, I feel as though we’re getting away just in the nick of time.  My back hair and the pricking of my thumbs warn me that your dearly beloved spooks are combining to put up some sort of a spooking job on us.  I hope Yee Kee has a plentiful supply of joss-sticks to stand ’em off, if they get too busy while we are gone.”