"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.