A Crime on Canvas by Fred M. White — Read

FOR a moment Lawrence forgot his errand. He forgot the urgent reason which had brought him to Le Blanc's studio. He stood in rapt contemplation of the picture just as if that and nothing else mattered in the world. He was very much like a man keenly bent on business who is suddenly pulled up by some street accident, by some swift and unexpected call upon his humanity. At such moments everything else is forgotten in the demands of the crisis, and so it was that Lawrence could think of nothing else than the pity of it. As a work of art he had admired the picture immensely, though it had puzzled and bewildered him. But now there was no sentiment in his heart except one of wrath and sadness that a rude hand should have been laid upon a thing of beauty. He came slowly and steadily down the studio till he could touch the canvas. Even now he was not sure that his eyes had not deceived him in the gloom. But as he touched the paint he could feel the red pigment moist and sticky on the tips of his fingers. He glowed with indignation.

"What a scandalous shame!" he murmured. "Surely this fellow, whoever he was, could have found some other way of revenging himself. If I had painted a picture like that it would be part and parcel of my very being."