e been awfully foolish. I deserve to--I deserve
everything. I know that. Adela has been so good to me. I can never say
how good. She might so easily have--I mean considering the way I have--"

She stopped. Adela could not have told Sir Seymour about the unkindness
of the girl she had sent him to help. Miss Van Tuyn remembered that just
in time.

"Lady Sellingworth did what you wished," said Sir Seymour, still in
a quiet and businesslike way, "and consulted me. She told me what you
wanted; that this man, Arabian, should be made to understand that he
must finally give up any plans he had formed with regard to you."

Miss Van Tuyn felt the red beginning to creep in her cheeks.

"Yes," she said, looking down.

"Perhaps this can be done," continued Sir Seymour, in a practical way,
rather like a competent man at a board meeting. "We must see."

He did not suggest that she could do it herself. She was thankful to him
for that.

"Have you a photograph of this man?" he continued.

"Oh--no!"

"That is a pity."

"But why do you want--"

"I should like to have his photograph to show at Scotland Yard."

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

Her face was scarlet now. Her forehead was burning. An acute and
horrible sense of shame possessed her, seemed to be wrapped round her
like a stinging garment.

"I've--I've never had a photograph of him," she said.

After a short pause Sir Seymour said:

"You've got his address."

The words seemed a statement as he said them.

"Yes," she said.

"Will you kindly write it down for me?"

"Yes."

She got up, still wrapped up in shame, and went to the writing-table.
She took up a pen to write Arabian's address. But she could not remember
the number of the flat. Her memory refused to give it to her.

"I can't remember the number," she said, standing by the writing-table.

"If you can give me the address of the flats I can easily find out the
number."

"It is Rose Tree Gardens"--she began writing it down--"Rose Tree
Gardens, Chelsea. It is close to the river."

She came away from the writing-table, and gave him the paper with the
address on it.

"Thank you!"

He took the paper, folded it up, drew out a leather case from an inner
pocket of his braided black jacket, and consigned the paper to it. Miss
Van Tuyn sat down again.

"I understand you met this man at the studio of Mr. Garstin, the
painter?" said Sir Seymour.

"Yes. But he wasn't a friend of Mr. Garstin's. Mr. Garstin saw