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-colo