When Sir Seymour was going out of the main hall of the building in which Arabian lived a taxicab happened to drive up. A man got out of it and paid the chauffeur. Sir Seymour made a sign to the chauffeur, who jerked his head and said:
“Yes, sir.”
“Drive me to Claridge’s Hotel, please,” said Sir Seymour.
He got into the taxicab and was soon away in the night. When he reached the hotel he went to the bureau and inquired if Miss Van Tuyn was at home. The man at the bureau, who knew him well, said that she was in, that she had not been out all day. He would inquire at once if she was at home to visitors. As he spoke he looked at Sir Seymour with an air of discreet interest. After a moment at the telephone he asked Sir Seymour to go upstairs, and called a page-boy to accompany him and show him the way.
“Henriques,” said Sir Seymour, pausing as he was about to follow the page. “You’re a discreet fellow, I know.”
“I hope so, Sir Seymour.”
“If by chance a man called Arabian should come here, while I am upstairs, get rid of him, will you? I am speaking on Miss Van Tuyn’s behalf and with her authority.”
“I won’t let the gentleman up, Sir Seymour.”
“Has he called to-day?”
“Yes, Sir Seymour. He called early this afternoon. I had orders to say Miss Van Tuyn and Miss Cronin were both out. He wrote a note downstairs which was sent up.”
“He may call again at any time. Get rid of him.”
“Yes, Sir Seymour.”
“Thanks. I rely on your discretion.”
And Sir Seymour went towards the lift, where the page-boy was waiting.
Miss Van Tuyn met him at the threshold of her sitting-room. She was very pale. She greeted him eagerly.
“How good of you to call again! Do come in. I haven’t stirred. I haven’t been out all day.”
She shut the sitting-room door.
“Hehas been here!”
“So I heard.”
“How? Who has—”
“I ventured to speak to Henriques, the young man at the bureau, before coming up. I know him quite well. I took it on myself to give an order on your behalf.”
“That he wasn’t to be allowed to come up?”
“Yes. I told Henriques to get rid of him.”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you! I’ve been in misery all day thinking at every moment that he might open my door and walk in.”
“They won’t let him up.”
“But they mightn’t happen to see him. If there were many people in the hall he might pass by unnoticed and—”
“In a hotel of this type people don’t pass by unnoticed. You need not be afraid.”
“But I am horribly afraid. I can’t help it. And it’s so dreadful not daring to move. It’s—it’s like living in a nightmare!”
“Come, Miss Van Tuyn!” said Sir Seymour, and in his voice and manner there was just a hint of the old disciplinarian, “pull yourself together. You’re not helpless, and you’ve got friends.”
“Oh, do forgive me! I know I have. But there’s something so absolutely hideous in feeling like this about a man who—whom I—”
She broke off, and sat down on a sofa abruptly, almost as if her limbs had given way under her.
“I quite understand that. I’ve just been with the fellow.”
Miss Van Tuyn started up.
“You’ve seen him?”
“Yes.”
“Where? Here?”
“I went to Mr. Garstin’s studio to have a look at the portrait and say a word to him. While I was there Arabian called. I stayed on and sat with him for some time. Afterwards I walked with him to the building where he is living temporarily and went in.”
“Went in?Youwent into his flat!”
“As I say.”
Miss Van Tuyn looked at him without speaking. Her expression showed intense astonishment, amounting almost to incredulity.
“I had it out with him,” said Sir Seymour grimly, after a pause. “And in the heat of the moment I told him something which I had not intended to tell him, which I had not meant to speak of at all.”
“What? What?”
“I told him I knew about the theft of ten years ago.”
“Oh!”
“And I told him also that you knew about it.”
“That I—oh! How did he take it? What did he say?”
“I didn’t wait to hear. The flat was—well—scented, and I wanted to get out of it.”
His face expressed such a stern and acute disgust that Miss Van Tuyn’s eyes dropped beneath his.
“You may think—it would be natural to think that the fact of my having told the man about your knowledge of his crime would prevent him from ever attempting to see you again,” Sir Seymour continued, “but I don’t feel sure of that.”
“You think that even after that he might—”
“I’ll be frank with you. I can’t tell what he might or might not do. He may follow my suggestion—”
“What did you—”
“I suggested to him that he had better clear out of the country at once. It’s quite possible that he may take my view and go, but in case he doesn’t, and tries to bother you any more—”
“He’s been! He’s written! He says hewillsee me. He has guessed that something has turned me against him.”
“He knows now what it is. Now I want you to write a note to him which I will leave at the bureau in case he calls to-night or to-morrow morning.”
“Yes.”
She went to the writing-table and sat down.
“If you will allow me to suggest the wording.”
“Please—please do!”
She took up a pen and dipped it in the ink. Then Sir Seymour dictated:
SIR,—Sir Seymour Portman has told me of his meeting with you to-day and of what occurred at it. What he said to you about me is true. Iknow. If you call you will not see me. I refuse absolutely to see you or to have anything more to do with you, now or at any future time.
“And then your name at the end.”
Miss van Tuyn wrote with a hand that slightly trembled. “B. VAN TUYN.”
“If you will put that into an envelope and address it I will take it down and leave it at the bureau.”
“Thank you.”
Miss Van Tuyn put the note into an envelope, closed the envelope and addressed it.
“That’s right.”
Sir Seymour held out his hand and she gave him the note.
“Now, good night.”
“You are going!”
He smiled slightly.
“I don’t sleep at Claridge’s as you and Miss Cronin do.”
“No, of course not. Thank you so very, very much! But I can never thank you properly.”
She paused. Then she said with sudden bitterness:
“And I used to pride myself on my independence!”
“Ah—independence! A word!” said Sir Seymour.
He turned away to go, but when he was near the door he stopped and seemed hesitating.
“What is it?” said Miss Van Tuyn anxiously.
“Even men sometimes have instincts,” he said, turning round.
“Yes?”
“May I use your telephone?”
“Of course! But—do—you—”
“Where—Oh, there it is!”
He went to it and called up the bureau. Then he said: “Sir Seymour Portman is speaking from Miss Van Tuyn’s sitting-room . . . is that Mr. Henriques? Please tell me, has that man, Arabian, of whom we spoke just now, called again?”
There was a silence in which Miss Van Tuyn, watching, saw a frown wrinkle deeply Sir Seymour’s forehead.
“Ah! Has he gone? Did you get rid of him? . . . How long ago? . . . Only two or three minutes! . . . Do you think he knows I am here? . . . Thank you. I’ll be down in a moment.”
He put the receiver back.
“Oh, but don’t leave me!” said Miss Van Tuyn distractedly. “You see, in spite of what you told him hehascome!”
“Yes. He has been. He’s a determined fellow.”
“He’ll never give it up! What can I do?”
“All you can do at present is to remain quietly up here in your comfortable rooms. Leave the rest to me.”
“But if he gets in?”
“He won’t. Even if he came upstairs—and he won’t be allowed to—he has no key of your outer door. Now I’ll go down and leave this note at the bureau. If he comes back and receives it, that will probably decide him to give the thing up. He is counting on the weakness of your will. This note will show him you have made up your mind. By the way”—he fixed his dark eyes on her—“youhavemade up your mind?”
She blushed up to her hair.
“Oh, yes—yes!”
“Very well. To-morrow I shall go to Scotland Yard. We’ll get him out of the country one way or another.”
She accompanied him to the outer door of the apartment. When he had gone out she shut it behind him, and he heard the click of a bolt being pushed home.
Before leaving the hotel Sir Seymour again sought his discreet friend Henriques, to whom he gave Miss Van Tuyn’s note.
“So the fellow has been?” he said.
“Yes, Sir Seymour.”
“Did you get rid of him easily?”
“Well, to tell the truth, Sir Seymour, he tried to be obstinate. I think—if you’ll excuse me—I certainly think that he was slightly under the influence of drink. Not drunk, you’ll understand, not at all as much as that! But still—”
“Yes—yes. If he comes back give him that note. And—do you think it would be wise to give him a hint that any further annoyance might lead to the intervention of the police? The young lady is very much upset and frightened. Do you think you might drop a word or two—at your discretion?”
“I’ll manage it, Sir Seymour. Leave it to me!”
“Very good of you, Henriques. Good night.”
“Good night, Sir Seymour. Always very glad to do anything for you.”
“Thank you.”
As Sir Seymour stepped out into Brook Street he glanced swiftly up and down the thoroughfare. But he did not see the man he was looking for. He stood still for a moment. There was hesitation in his mind. The natural thing, he felt, would be to go at once to Berkeley Square and to have a talk with Adela. It was late. He was beginning to feel hungry. Adela would give him some dinner. But—could he go to Adela just now? No; he could not. And he hailed a cab and drove home. Something the beast had said had made a horrible impression upon the faithful lover, an impression which remained with him, which seemed to be eating its way, like a powerful acid, into his very soul, corroding, destroying.
Adela—young Craven!
Was it possible? Was there then never to be an end to that mania, which had been Adela’s curse, and the tragedy of the man who had loved her with the long love which is so rare among men?
There was bitterness in Sir Seymour’s heart that night, and that bitterness sent him home, to the home that was no real home, to the solitude thatshehad given him.
On the following morning, true to his word, Sir Seymour visited Scotland Yard, and had a talk with a certain authority there who was a very old friend of his. The authority asked a few questions, but no questions that were indiscreet, or that Sir Seymour was unable to answer without betraying Lady Sellingworth’s confidence. The sequel to this conversation was that a tall, thin, lemon-coloured man, with tight lips and small, dull-looking eyes, which saw much more than most bright eyes ever see, accompanied Sir Seymour in a cab to Glebe Place. They arrived there about half-past eleven. Sir Seymour rang the bell, and in a moment Dick Garstin opened the door.
“What’s the matter?” was Sir Seymour’s unconventional greeting to him.
For the painter’s face was flushed in patches and his small eyes glowed fiercely.
“Who’s this?” he said, looking at Sir Seymour’s companion.
“Detective Inspector Horridge—Mr. Dick Garstin,” said Sir Seymour.
“Oh, come to see the picture! Well, you’re too late!” said Garstin in a harsh voice.
“Too late!”
“Yes, a damned sight too late! But come up!”
They went in, and Garstin, without any more words, took them up to the studio.
“There you are!” he said, still in the harsh and unnatural voice.
He flung out his arm towards the easel which stood in the middle of the room. Sir Seymour and the inspector went up to it. Part of the canvas on which Arabian’s portrait had been painted was still there. But the head and face had been cleanly cut away. Only the torso remained.
“When was this done?” asked Sir Seymour.
“Some time last night, I suppose.”
“But—”
“I didn’t sleep here. I often don’t, more often than not. But last night I was a fool to be away. Well, I’ve paid for my folly!”
“But how—”
“God knows! The fellow got in. It doesn’t much matter how. A false key, I suppose.”
“Does anyone know?”
“Not a soul, except us.”
Sir Seymour was silent. He had realized at once that Miss Van Tuyn was safe now, safe, too, from further scandal, unless Garstin chose to make trouble. He looked at the painter, and from him to the inspector.
“What are you going to do?” he said to Dick Garstin.
“I don’t know!” said Garstin.
And he flung himself down on the old sofa by the wall.
“I don’t know!”
For a moment he put his hands up to his temples and stared on the ground. As he sat there thus he looked like a man who had just been thrashed. After a moment Sir Seymour went over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
Garstin looked up.
“What’s that for?”
He stared into Sir Seymour’s face for an instant. Perhaps he read something there. For he seemed to pull himself together, and got up.
“Well, inspector,” he said, “you’ve had your visit for nothing. It wasn’t a bad picture, either. I should like you to have had a squint at it. But—perhaps I’ll do better yet. Who knows? Perhaps I’ve stuck to those Cafe Royal types too long. Eh, Sir Seymour? Perhaps I’d better make a start in a new line. Have a whisky?”
“Thank you. But it’s rather too early,” said the lemon-coloured man. “Do you wish—”
“No, I don’t!” said Garstin. “We’ll leave it at that?”
Again he flung out his arm towards the mutilated canvas.
“I made a bargain with the fellow whose portrait that was. I was to paint it and exhibit it, and then he was to have it. Well, I suppose we’re about quits. I can’t exhibit it, but I’m damned if he can make much money out of it. We’re quits!”
Sir Seymour turned to the inspector.
“Well, inspector, I’m very sorry to have given you this trouble for nothing,” he said. “I know you’re a busy man. You take the cab back to Scotland Yard. Here—you must allow me to pay the shot. I’ll stay on for a few minutes. And”—he glanced towards Garstin—“by the way, we may as well keep this matter between us, if Mr. Garstin is good enough to agree.”
“I agree! I agree!” said Garstin.
“The fact is there’s a woman in it, quite a girl. We don’t want a scandal. It would distress her. And I suppose this is really—this outrage—I suppose it is purely a matter for Mr. Garstin to decide whether he wishes any sequel to it or not.”
“Oh, certainly,” said the inspector. “If Mr. Garstin doesn’t wish any action to be taken—”
“I don’t! That’s flat!”
“Very well,” said the inspector. “Good morning.”
“Back in a moment,” said Garstin to Sir Seymour. And he went downstairs to let the inspector out.
“So that’s how it ends!” said Sir Seymour to himself when he was alone. “That’s how it ends!”
And he went over to what had been Arabian’s portrait, and gazed at the hole which surmounted the magnificent torso. He had no doubt that Arabian had gone out of Miss Van Tuyn’s life for ever. Probably, almost certainly, he had returned to the hotel on the previous evening, had been given the note Miss Van Tuyn had written to dictation, and also a hint from that very discreet and capable fellow, Henriques, of what might happen if he persisted in trying to force himself upon her. And then he had come to the decision which had led to the outrage in the studio. Where was he now? No longer in Rose Tree Gardens if Sir Seymour knew anything of men.
“The morning boat to Paris, and—the underworld!” Sir Seymour muttered to himself.
“Not much to look at now, is it?” said Garstin’s voice behind him.
He turned round quickly.
Garstin was gazing at his ruined masterpiece with a curious twisted smile.
“What can one say?” said Sir Seymour. “When Horridge was here I thought: ‘When he’s gone I’ll tell Mr. Garstin!’ And now he is gone, and—and—”
He went up to Garstin and held out his hand.
“I know I don’t understand what you feel about this. No one could but a fellow-painter as big as you are. But I wish I could make you understand what I feel about something else.”
“And what’s that?” said Garstin, as he took Sir Seymour’s hand, almost doubtfully.
“About the way you’ve taken it, and your letting the blackguard off.”
“Oh, as to that, I bet you he’ll be in Paris by five to-day.”
“Just what I think. But still—”
He pressed Garstin’s hand, and Garstin returned the pressure.
“Beryl wanted me to paint him, but I painted him to please myself. I’m a selfish brute, like most painters, I suppose.”
“But you’re letting him go because of Miss Van Tuyn.”
“Damn it, I believe I am. I say, are you ever coming here again?”
“If I may.”
“I wish you would.”
He gazed at Sir Seymour’s strong head.
“I’ve spent half my life in showing people up on canvas,” he said. “I should like to try something else.”
“And what’s that?”
“I should like to try to reveal the underneath fine instead of the underneath filth. It’d be a new experiment for me.”
He laughed.
“Perhaps I should make a failure of it. But—if you’d allow me—I would try to make a start with you.”
“I can only say I shall be honoured,” said Sir Seymour, with a touch of almost shamefaced modesty which he endeavoured to hide with a very grave courtliness. “Please let me know, if you don’t change your mind. I’m a good bit battered, but such as I am I am always at your service—out of work hours.”
His last words to Garstin at the street door were:
“You’ve taught an old soldier how to take a hard knock.”
Sir Seymour usually called on Lady Sellingworth about five o’clock in the afternoon when he was not detained by work or inevitable engagements. On the day of his visit to Garstin’s studio with the inspector he felt that he owed it to Adela to go to Berkeley Square and to tell her what had happened in connexion with Arabian since he had last seen her. She must be anxious for news. It was not likely that she had seen Miss Van Tuyn, that beautiful prisoner in Claridge’s hotel. Miss Van Tuyn might have telephoned to her and told her of his visits to the hotel. But Adela would certainly expect to see him, would certainly be waiting for him. He ought to go to her. Since the morning he had been very busy. He had not had time to call again on Miss Van Tuyn, who could, therefore—so at least he believed—know nothing of the outrage in the studio. That piece of news which would surely be welcome to her if she understood what it implied, should rightly come to her from the woman who had been unselfish for her sake. Adela ought to tell her that. But first it was his duty to tell Adela. He must go to Berkeley Square.
And he decided to go and set out on foot. But as he walked he was conscious of a strange and hideous reluctance to pay the customary visit—the visit which had been the bright spot in his day for so long. He had interfered with the design of Arabian. But Arabian unconsciously had stabbed him to the heart with a sentence, meant to be malicious, about Adela, but surely not intended to pierce him.
Young Craven! Young Craven!
When he reached the familiar door and was standing before it he hesitated to press the bell. He feared that he would not be perfectly natural with Adela. He feared that he would be constrained, that he would be unable not to seem cold and rigid. Almost he was tempted to turn away. He could write his news to her. Perhaps even now young Craven was in the house with her. Perhaps he, the old man, would be unwanted, would only be in the way if he went in. But it was not his habit to recoil from anything and, after a moment of uneasy waiting, he put his hand to the bell.
Murgatroyd opened the door.
“Good day, Murgatroyd. Is her Ladyship at home?”
“Yes, Sir Seymour.”
He stepped into the hall, left his hat, coat and stick, and prepared to go upstairs.
“Anyone with her Ladyship?”
“No, Sir Seymour. Her Ladyship is alone.”
A moment later Murgatroyd opened the drawing-room door and made the familiar announcement:
“Sir Seymour Portman!”
Adela was as usual on the sofa by the tea-table, near to the fireplace in which ship logs were blazing. She got up to greet him, and looked at him eagerly, almost anxiously.
“I was hoping you would come. Has anything happened?”
“Yes, a great deal,” he said, as he took her hand.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she asked.
“But—do I look at you differently from—”
“Yes,” she interrupted him.
He lowered his eyes, feeling almost guilty.
“But in what way?”
“As if you wanted to know something, as if—have you changed towards me?”
“My dear Adela! What a question from you after all these years!”
“You might change.”
“Nonsense, my dear.”
“No, no, it is not! Anyone may change. We are all incalculable.”
“Give me some tea now. And let me tell you my news.”
She sat down again, but her luminous eyes were still fixed on him, and there was an almost terrified expression in them.
“You haven’t seen—him?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You have! I felt it! He has said something about me, something horrible!”
“Adela, do you really think I would take an opinion of you from a blackguard like that?”
“Please tell me everything,” she said.
She looked painfully agitated, and something in her agitation made him feel very tender, for it gave her in his eyes a strange semblance of youthfulness. Yes, despite all she had done, all the years she had lived through, there was something youthful in her still. Perhaps it was that which persistently held out hands to youth! The thought struck him and the tenderness was lessened in his eyes.
“Seymour, you are hiding something from me,” she said.
“Adela, give me a little time! I am going to tell you my news.”
“Yes, yes, please do!”
“I want my tea,” he said, with a smile.
“Oh, I beg your pardon!”
“How young you are!” he said.
“Young! How can you say such a thing?”
“Now really, Adela! As if I could ever be sarcastic with you!”
“That remark could only be sarcastic.”
He sipped his tea.
“No; you will always have youth in you. It is undying. It makes half your charm, my dear. And perhaps—”
“Yes?”
“Well, perhaps it has caused most of the trouble in your life.”
She looked down.
“Our best gifts have their—what shall I say—their shady side, I suppose. And we seem to have to pay very often for what are thought of as gifts. But now I must tell you.”
“Yes.”
And then he began to relate to her, swiftly although he was old, the events of his mission. She listened, and while she listened she sat very still. She had looked up. Her eyes were fixed upon him. Presently he reached the point in his narrative where Arabian walked into Dick Garstin’s studio. Then she moved. She seemed suddenly seized with an uncontrollable restlessness. He went on without looking at her, but he heard her movements, the rustle of her gown, the touch of her hand on a sofa cushion, on the tea-table, the chink of moved china, touching other china. And two or three times he heard the faint sound of her breathing. He knew she was suffering intensely, and he believed it was because of the haunting, inexorable remembrance of the enticement that abominable fellow, Arabian, had had for her. But he had to go on. And he went on till he came to the scene in the flat at Rose Tree Gardens.
“You—you went to his room!” she then said, interrupting him.
“Yes.”
He heard her sigh. But she said nothing more. He told what had happened in the flat, but not fully. He said nothing of Arabian’s mention of her name, but he did tell her that he himself had spoken of her, had said that he was a friend of hers. And finally he told her how, carried away by indignation, he had spoken of his and Miss Van Tuyn’s knowledge that Arabian had stolen her jewels.
“I didn’t mean to tell him that,” he added. “But—well, it came out. I—I hope you forgive me?”
He did not wait for her answer, but told her of his abrupt departure from the flat, and of his subsequent visit to Miss Van Tuyn, of what he had learnt at the hotel, and of what he had done there.
“The police!” she said, as if startled. “But if—if there should be a scandal! Oh, Seymour, that would be too horrible! I couldn’t bear that! He might—it might come out! And my name—”
She got up from the sofa. Her face looked drawn with an anxiety that was like agony. He got up too.
“It was only a threat. But in any case it will be all right, Adela.”
“But we don’t know what he may do!” she said, with desperation.
“Wait till you know what he has done.”
“What has he done?”
And then he told her of the outrage in the studio. When he was silent she made a slight swaying movement and took hold of the mantelpiece. He saw by her face that she had grasped at once what Arabian’s action implied.
Flight!
“You see—he’s done with. We’ve done with the fellow!” he said at last as she did not speak.
“Yes.”
Her face, when not interfered with, was always pale. But now it looked horribly, unnaturally white. Relief, he believed, had shaken her in the very soul.
“Adela, did you think your good deed was going to recoil on you?” he said. “Did you really think it was going to bring punishment on you? I don’t believe things go like that even in this distracted, inexplicable old world.”
“Don’t they? Mightn’t they?”
“Surely not. You have saved that girl. You have paid back that scoundrel. And you have nothing to fear.”
“Why did you look at me like that when you came into the room?”
“But you are—”
“No. You haven’t told me something. Tell me!”
“Be happy in the good result of your self-sacrifice, Adela.”
“I want you to tell me. There is something. I know there is.”
“Yes. But it only concerns me.”
“Seymour, I don’t believe that!”
He was silent, looking at her with the old dog’s eyes. But now there was something else in them besides faithfulness.
“Well, Adela,” he said at last, “I believe very much in absolute sincerity between real friends. But I suppose friendship must be very real indeed to stand absolute sincerity. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, I do. But our friendship is as real as any friendship can be, I think.”
“Yes, but on my side it is mixed up, it has always been mixed up, with something else.”
“Yes, I know,” she said in a low voice.
“And besides I’m afraid, if I speak quite frankly, I shall hurt you, my dear!”
“Then—hurt me, Seymour!”
“Shall I? Can I do that?”
“Be frank with me. I have been very frank with you. I have toldyou.”
“Yes, indeed. You have been nobly, gloriously frank. Well, then—that horrible fellow did say something which I haven’t told you, something that, I confess it, has upset me.”
“What was it?” she said, still in the low voice, and bending her small head a little like one expecting punishment.
“He alluded to a friend of yours. He mentioned that nice boy I met here, young Craven?”
“Yes?”
“I really can’t get what he said over my lips, Adela.”
“I know what he said. You needn’t tell me.”
The were both silent for a minute. Then she came close to him.
“Seymour, perhaps you want to ask me a question about Mr. Craven. But—don’t! You needn’t. I have done, absolutely done, with all that side of my life which you hate. A part of my nature has persecuted me. It has often led me into follies and worse, as you know. But I have done with it. Indeed, indeed I can answer for myself. I wouldn’t dare to speak like this to you, the soul of sincerity, if I couldn’t. But I’ll prove it to you. Seymour, you know what I am. I dare say you have always known. But the other night I told you myself.”
“Yes.”
“If I hadn’t I shouldn’t dare now to ask you what I am going to ask you. Is it possible that you still love me enough to care to be more than the friend you have always been to me?”
“Do you mean—”
He paused.
“Yes,” she said.
“I ask nothing more of life than that, Adela.”
“Nor do I, dear Seymour.”
That evening Miss Van Tuyn learnt through the telephone from Lady Sellingworth what had happened in Dick Garstin’s studio during the previous night. On the following morning at breakfast time she learnt from Sir Seymour that the flat in Rose Tree Gardens had been abruptly deserted by its tenant, who had left very early the day before.
She was free from persecution, and, of course, she realized her freedom; but, so strange are human impulses, she was at first unable to be happy in her knowledge that the burden of fear had been lifted from her. The misfortune which had fallen on Dick Garstin obsessed her mind. Her egoism was drowned in her passionate anger at what Arabian had done. She went early to the studio and found Garstin there alone.
“Hulloh, Beryl, my girl!” he said, in his usual offhand manner. “Come round to see the remains?”
“Oh, Dick!” she exclaimed, grasping his hand. “Oh, I’m so grieved, so horrified! What an awful thing to happen to you! And it’s all my fault! Where—what have you done with—”
“What’s left do you mean? Go and see for yourself.”
She hurried upstairs to the studio. When he followed he found her standing before the mutilated picture, which was still in its place, with tears rolling down her flushed cheeks.
“Good God! Beryl! What’s up? What are you whimpering about?”
“How you must hate me!” she said, in a broken voice. “How you must hate me!”
“Rubbish! What for?”
“This has all happened because of me. If it hadn’t been for me you would never have painted him.”
“I painted the fellow to please myself.”
“But I asked you to get him to come here.”
“What you ask, or don’t ask, doesn’t bother me.”
She gazed at him through her tears as if in surprise.
“Dick, I never thought you could be like this,” she said.
“Like what? What’s all the fuss about?” he exclaimed irritably.
“I always thought you were really a brute.”
“That showed your sound judgment.”
“How can you take it like this? Your masterpiece—ruined! For you’ll never do anything like it again.”
“That’s probably gospel truth. My girl, you are standing in front of my epitaph on the Cafe Royal. There it is. Look well at it! I’ve buried my past, and I’m going to start again. And who do you think is to be my next victim?”
“Who?”
“You’ll never guess—a gentleman!”
“A gentleman? What do you mean, Dick? The word has gone out.”
“But not the thing, thank God, so long as Sir Seymour Portman keeps about on his dear old pins.”
“You are going to paint Sir Seymour?”
“I am! Think I can do him?”
She looked at him for a moment, and her violet eyes searched him as if to see whether he were worthy. Then she said soberly:
“Yes, Dick.”
“Then let’s turn the damned epitaph with its hole to the wall!”
And he lifted what remained of Arabian’s portrait from the easel and threw it into a dark corner of the studio.