“Look at that,” cried West as Hartman picked himself up from the pavement, “look! you miser! look at those faces!” But Hartman gave him a look which he never forgot, and walked away without a word. Trent, who suddenly appeared at the corner, glanced curiously at West, who merely nodded toward his door saying, “Come in; Fallowby’s upstairs.”

“What are you doing with that knife?” demanded Fallowby, as he and Trent entered the studio.

West looked at his wounded hand, which still clutched the knife, but saying, “Cut myself by accident,” tossed it into a corner and washed the blood from his fingers.

Fallowby, fat and lazy, watched him without comment, but Trent, half divining how things had turned, walked over to Fallowby smiling.

“I’ve a bone to pick with you!” he said.

“Where is it? I’m hungry,” replied Fallowby with affected eagerness, but Trent, frowning, told him to listen.