s smoking a pipe and
reading Delacroix's "Mon Journal," heard his door bell ring. He was
stretched out on a divan, and he lay for a moment without moving,
puffing at his pipe with the book in his hand. Then he heard the bell
again, and got up. Arabian's portrait stood on its easel in the middle
of the room. Garstin glanced at it as he went toward the stairs. Since
the day when he had shown it for the first time to Beryl Van Tuyn and
Arabian he had not seen either of them. Nor had he had a word from them.
This had not troubled him. Already he was at work on another sitter, a
dancer in the Russian ballet, talented, decadent, impertinent, and, so
Garstin believed, marked out for early death in a madhouse--altogether
quite an interesting study. But now, looking at Arabian's portrait,
Garstin thought:

"Probably the man himself. I knew he would come back, and we should have
a battle. Now for it!"

And he smiled as he went striding downstairs.

But when he opened the door he found standing outside in the foggy
darkness a tall, soldierly old man, with an upright figure, white hair,
and moustache, a lined red face and dark eyes which looked straight into
his.

"Who are you, sir?" said Garstin. "And what do you want?"

"Are you Mr. Dick Garstin?" said the old man.

"Or rather, elderly," Garstin now said to himself, glancing sharply over
his visitor's strong, lean frame and broad shoulders.

"Yes, I am."

The stranger opened a leather case and took out a card.

"Perhaps you will kindly read that."

Garstin took the card.

"Beryl!" he said. "What's up?"

And he read: "To introduce Sir Seymour Portman, _please see him_. B. V.
T."

"Are you Sir Seymour Portman?"

"Yes."

"Come in."

Sir Seymour stepped in.

"Take off your coat?"

"If you'll allow me. I won't keep you long."

"The longer the better!" said Garstin with offhand heartiness. He had
taken a liking to his visitor at first sight.

"A damned fine old chap!" had been his instant mental comment on seeing
Sir Seymour. "A fellow to swear by!"

"Come upstairs. I'll show you the way," he added.

He tramped up and Sir Seymour followed him.

"I do most of my painting here," said Garstin. "Sit down. Have a cigar."

"Thank you very much, but I won't smoke," said Sir Seymour, looking
round casually at the portraits in the room before sitting down and
crossing his right leg over his left leg. "And I won't take up your time
for more than a few minutes."