"Thank you! I'm doing this for your friend, Miss Beryl Van Tuyn."

"Ha!" said Garstin.

"I don't think I need to go into the matter further than to say that she
does not wish to have anything more to do with this Mr. Arabian."

"Oh, she's found him out at last, has she, and put you up to--"

Garstin paused. Then he added:

"It's like Beryl's cheek to ask a man of your type to interfere in such
a matter. Fellows like Arabian are hardly in your line."

"Oh, I've had to deal with men of all classes."

"And quite able to, I should say. So Beryl's had enough of that chap?"

"Mr. Garstin, I am going to be frank with you, frank to this extent.
Arabian is a blackguard."

"No news to me!"

"Miss Van Tuyn can have no further acquaintance with him, and I am
going to do my best to see to that. But I believe this fellow is very
persistent."

"I should say so. He's a hard nut to crack. You may depend on that."

"And therefore strong measures may be necessary."

"Whom do you want to bring here to look at my stuff?"

"Two or three officials from Scotland Yard."

Garstin uttered the thrush's song through half-closed lips.

"That's it! Well, you can bring them along whenever you like."

"Thank you. They may not be art experts, but they, or one of them, may
possibly be useful for my purpose."

"Right you are! So you know something definite about the fellow?"

"Yes."

"Don't bother yourself! I don't want to know what it is," snapped out
Garstin abruptly.

Sir Seymour smiled, and it was almost what Lady Sellingworth called his
"beaming" smile. He got up and held out his hand.

"Thank you," he said.

Garstin gave him a strong grip.

"Glad I've met you!" he said. "Beryl's done me a good turn."

"Perhaps you will allow me to say--though I'm no expert, and my opinion
may therefore have no value in your eyes--but you've painted a portrait
such as one very seldom sees nowadays."

"D'you mean you think it's fine?"

"Very fine! Wonderful!"

Garstin's usually hard face softened in an extraordinary way.

"Your opinion goes down in my memory in red letters."

Sir Seymour turned to go. As he did so he cast a look round the studio,
which suggested to Garstin that he would perhaps like to examine the
other portraits dotted about on easels and hanging on the walls. A faint
reddish line appeared in the painter's shaven blue cheeks.

"Not worth your while!" he almost muttered.

"Eh?" said Sir Seymour.

"A lot of dec