y particular here?" asked Nellie.

"That's a nice question," retorted Stratton. "Geisner is here, if you
call him 'anybody particular.'"

"Geisner! Is he back again?" exclaimed the girl. Ned felt her hand clutch
him nervously. A sudden repulsion to this Geisner shot through him. He
pulled his arm from her grasp.

They had reached the end of the passage, however, and she did not notice.
Stratton turned the handle and opened the door, held back the half-drawn
curtain that hung on the further side and they passed in. "Here we are,"
he cried. "Geisner says he recollects you, Nellie."

Ned could have described the room to the details if he had been struck
blind that minute. It was a double room, long and low and not very broad,
running the whole width of the house, for there were windows on two sides
and French lights on another. The glazed door opened in the corner of the
windowless side. Opposite were the French lights, the further one swung
ajar and showing a lighted verandah beyond from which came a flutter of
voices. Beyond still were dim points of light that he took at first for
stars. Folding doors, now swung right back, divided the long
linoleum-floored room into two apartments, a studio and a sitting-room.
The studio in which they stood was littered with things strange to him;
an easel, bearing a half-finished drawing; a black-polished cabinet; a
table-desk against the window, on it slips of paper thrown carelessly
about, the ink-well open, a file full of letters, a handful of
cigarettes, a tray of tobacco ash, a bespattered palette, pens, coloured
crayons, a medley of things; a revolving office chair with a worn crimson
footrug before it; a many-shelved glass case against the blank wall,
crammed to overflowing with shells and coral and strange grasses, with
specimens of ore, with Chinese carvings, with curious lacquer-work; a
large brass-bound portfolio stand; on the painted walls plaster-casts of
hands and arms and feet, boxing gloves, fencing foils, a glaring tiger's
head, a group of photographs; in the corner, a suit of antique armour
stood sentinel over a heap of dumb-bells and Indian clubs.

In the sitting room beyond the folded doors, a soft coloured rug carpet
lay loosely on the floor. There were easy chairs there and a red lounge
that promised softness; a square cloth-covered table; a whatnot in the
corner; fancy shelves; a pretty walnut-wood piano, gilt lined, the cover
thrown back, laden with music; o