It did not in the least surprise me to learn that her
brother had died penniless.

"And if you hadn't undertaken the 'Life,'" she said, "he might just as
well not have worked in poverty all these years. You can, at least, see
to his fame."

I nodded again gravely, and ruminated for a moment. Then I spoke.

"I can write it, fully and in detail, up to five years ago," I said. "You
know what happened then. I tried my best to help him, but he never would
let me. Tell me, Maschka, why he wouldn't sell me that portrait."

I knew instantly, from her quick confusion, that her brother had spoken
to her about the portrait he had refused to sell me, and had probably
told her the reason for his refusal. I watched her as she evaded the
question as well as she could.

"You know how--queer--he was about who he sold his things to. And as for
those five years in which you saw less of him, Schofield will tell you
all you want to know."

I relinquished the point. "Who's Schofield?" I asked instead.

"He was a very good friend of Michael's--of both of us. You can talk
quite freely to him. I want to say at the beginning that I should like
him to be associated with you in this."

I don't know how I divined on the spot her relation to Schofield, whoever
he was. She told me that he too was a painter.

"Michael thought very highly of his things," she said.

"I don't know them," I replied.

"You probably wouldn't," she returned....

But I caught the quick drop of her eyes from their brief excursion round
my library, and I felt something within me stiffen a little. It did not
need Maschka Andriaovsky to remind me that I had not attained my position
without--let us say--splitting certain differences; the looseness of
the expression can be corrected hereafter. Life consists very largely of
compromises. You doubtless know my name, whichever country or hemisphere
you happen to live in, as that of the creator of Martin Renard, the
famous and popular detective; and I was not at that moment disposed to
apologise, either to Maschka or Schofield or anybody else, for having
written the stories at the bidding of a gaping public. The moment the
public showed that it wanted something better I was prepared to give it.
In the meantime, I sat in my very comfortable library, securely shielded
from distress by my balance at my banker's.

"Well," I said after a moment, "let's see how we stand. And first
as to what you're likely to get out of this. It