"Truth! Bah!" he exclaimed excitedly."I have no patience with such aesthetic hod-carriers! Truth, indeed! Is there no other truth in art but that coarse verisimilitude, that vulgar trickery, which appeals to the eyes and the ears of the rabble? Are there not psychological truths of immensely greater importance? What sane man imagines for a moment that the pleasure he derives from seeing that greatest of all tragedians, Edwin Booth, in one of Shakespeare's matchless tragedies, is dependent upon his believing that this or that character is actually killed? Why, even the day of the cranberry-juice dagger is long since passed.When Miss Davenport shrieks in 'Fedora,' the shriek is literal - 'real,' you would call it - and you find yourself instinctively saying, 'Don't! - don't!'

and wishing you were out of the house.When Mr.Booth, as 'Shylock'

shrieks at 'Tubal's' news, the cry is not real, is not literal, but is suggestive, and you see at once the fiendish glee of which it is the expression.The difference between the two is the difference between vocal cords and grey matter.""But surely," I rejoined, "one doesn't want untruth; one wants - "but he did not let me finish.

"Always that cry of truth!" he retorted."Do you not see how absurd it is, as used by your exponents of realism? With a bit of charcoal some Raphael draws a face with five lines, and some photographer snaps a camera at the same face.Which would any sane man choose as the best work of art? The five-line face, of course.Why? Is the work of the camera unreal? Is it not more accurate in drawing, more subtle in gradation than the less mechanical picture? To be sure.

What, then, makes the superiority of the few lines of our Raphael?

That which makes the superiority of all noble art - its truth,, not on a low, but on a high, plane: its power of interpreting.See!"he said, fairly aglow with excitement."What does your realist do, even assuming that he has reached that never-to--be-attained perfection which is the lifelong Mecca of his desires? He gives you, by his absolutely realistic goes with you, and interprets its grandeur to you.Stand before his canvas and enjoy it as you would Nature herself if there.Surely, you say, nothing more could be desired, and you clap your hands, and shout, 'Bravo!' But wait a bit; the other side is yet to be heard from.What does the true artist do for you by his picture of Yosemite Valley? He not only gives you a free conveyance to it, but he goes with you, and interprets its grandeur to you.He translates into the language of your consciousness beauties which, without him, you would entirely miss.It is this very capability of seeing more in Nature than is ever perceived by the common throng that constitutes the especial genius of the artist, and a work that is not aglow with its creator's personality - personality, mind you, not coarse realism - can never rank as a masterpiece.But, come, this won't do.Why did you want to get me astride my hobby?"I thought it advisable to answer this question by asking another, so I said: "But how about Davenport? Will you go?""Yes," he replied."Anything with a Cleopatra to it interests me.

I'll go now and see about the tickets," and he left me.

I have related Maitland's aesthetic views as expressed to me upon this occasion, not because they have any particular bearing upon the mystery I am narrating, but because they cast a strong side-light upon the young man's character, and also for the reason that Ibelieve his personality to be sufficiently strong and unique to be of general interest.

We went that same night to see Sardou's "Cleopatra." I asked Maitland how he liked the piece, and the only reply he vouchsafed was: "I have recently read Shakespeare's treatment of the same theme."=20CHAPTER II

If events spread themselves out fanwise from the past into the future, then must the occurrences of the present exhibit convergence toward some historical burning-point, - some focal centre whereat the potential was warmed=20into the kinetic.

It was nearly a week after the events last narrated before I saw Maitland again, and then only by chance.We happened to meet in the Parker House, and, as he had some business pertaining to a case he was on, to transact at the Court House, I walked up Beacon Street with him.There is a book or stationery store, on Somerset Street, just before you turn down toward Pemberton Square.As we were passing this store, Maitland espied a large photographic reproduction of some picture.

"Let us cross over and see what it is," he said.We did so.It was a photograph of L.Alma-Tadema's painting of Antony and Cleopatra.

Maitland started a little as he read the title, and then said lightly: "Do you suppose, Doc, that woman's mummy is in existence?

I should like to find it.I've an idea she left some hieroglyphic message for me on her mummy-case, and doesn't propose to let me rest easy until I find and translate it.Now, if I believed in transmigration of souls - do you see any mark of Antony about me?