rection?"

"Oh, no. I live quite near in Chelsea."

"I can walk to your door then if you don't mind having my company," said
Sir Seymour.

"Thank you!"

And they walked on together in silence. Sir Seymour wondered what was
passing in the mind of the man beside him. He felt sure that Arabian had
been at first suspicious of him in the studio. Had he been able by his
manner to lull that suspicion to rest? He was inclined to believe so.
But it was impossible for him to be sure. After two or three minutes of
silence he spoke again. But he made no allusion to the recent scene
in the studio, or to Garstin's parting words. His instinct counselled
silence on that point. So he talked of London, the theatres, the affairs
of the day, trying to seem natural, like a man of the world with a
casual acquaintance. He noticed that Arabian's answers and comments were
brief. Sometimes when he did speak he spoke at random. It was obvious
that he was preoccupied. He seemed to Sir Seymour to be brooding darkly
over something. This state of things continued until they reached Rose
Tree Gardens.

"This is it," said Arabian, stopping before the big porch.

Sir Seymour stopped, too, hesitated, then said:

"I'll say good night to you."

Arabian shot a piercing and morose glance at him, moved his right hand
as if about to extend it, dropped it and said:

"Well, but we have not spoken any more about my picture!"

"No."

"Dick Garstin said you would decide."

"Scarcely that--was it?"

"But I think it was."

"Well, but it's really not my affair."

"But he made it so."

"Perhaps. But you didn't say--"

"But I should like to know what you think."

"Very good of you. But I'm an outsider. I wasn't there when you made
what you say was a bargain."

"No, but--"

Again he sent a piercing glance to Sir Seymour, who received it with
absolute sangfroid, and stood looking completely detached, firm and
simple. At that moment Sir Seymour felt positive that a struggle was
going on in Arabian in which the drink he had taken was playing a part.
The intensely suspicious nature of the enemy of society, always on the
alert, because always liable to be in danger, was at odds with the demon
that steals away the wits of men, unchains their recklessness, unlocks
their tongues, uncovers often their most secret inclinations. Arabian
was hesitating. At that moment the least thing would turn him one way or
the other, would prompt him to give himself to