And so will Jim Rutlidge." Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange spent that evening at the little house next door.

The next morning, the artist shut himself up in his studio.

At lunch time, he would not come out.

Late in the afternoon, the novelist went, again, to knock at the door.
The artist called in a voice that rang with triumph, "Come in, old man, come in and help me celebrate." Entering, Conrad Lagrange found him; sitting, pale and worn, before his picture--his palette and brushes still in his hand.
And such a picture! A moment, the novelist who knew--as few men know--the world that was revealed with such fidelity in that face upon the canvas, looked; then, with weird and wonderful oaths of delight, he caught the tired artist and whirled him around the studio, in a triumphant dance.
"You've done it! man--you've done it! It's all there; every rotten, stinking shred of it! Wow! but it's good--so damned good that it's almost inhuman.

I knew you had it in you.