“My good girl, we expect from those we rely on. What do I know about this fellow’s character? I told him who I was, and what I wanted with him, and that I wanted it with him at three this afternoon. He’s got the address. But whether we have any reason to expect him is more than I can say.” She looked quickly at the watch on her wrist. “It is past three. I was late.” After an instant of silence she sat down on an old-fashioned sofa covered with dull green and red silk. Just behind it on an easel stood a half-finished portrait of the Cora woman, staring with hungry eyes over an empty tumbler. “Give me a cigarette, Dick,” she said. “Did he say he would come?” The painter went over to an old Spanish cabinet and rummaged for a box of cigarettes, with his horsey-looking back turned towards her. “Did he?” she repeated. “Can’t you tell me what happened when you spoke to him? Why force me to cross-examine you in this indelicate way?” “Here you are!” said Garstin, turning round with a box of cigarettes. “Thank you.” “I gave him my name.” “He knew it, of course?” “He didn’t say so. There was no celebrity-start of pleasure. I had to explain that I occasionally painted portraits and that I wished to make a study of his damned remarkable head. Upon that he handed me his card. Here it is.” And Garstin drew out of a side pocket a visiting-card, which he gave to Miss Van Tuyn. She read: “Nicolas Arabian.” There was no address in the corner. “What a curious name!” She sat gazing at the card and smoking her cigarette. “Do you know where he is staying?” “No.” “Did you speak English to him?” “I did.” “And he spoke good English?” “Yes, with a foreign accent of some kind.” At this moment an electric bell sounded below. “There he is!” said Miss Van Tuyn, quickly giving back the card to Garstin, who dropped it into his pocket. “Do go down quickly and let him in, or he may think it is all a hoax and go away.” The painter stood looking at her keenly, with his hands in his pockets and his strong, thin legs rather wide apart. “Well, at any rate you’re damned unconventional!” he said. “At this moment you even look unconventional. What are your eyes shining about?” “Dick--do go!” She laid a hand on his arm. There was a strong grip in her fingers. “This is a little adventure. And I love an adventure,” she said. “I only hope it ends badly,” said Garstin, as he turned towards the staircase. “He’s more patient than you. He hasn’t rung twice.” “I believe he’s gone away,” she said, almost angrily as he disappeared down the stairs. She got up. There was a grand piano in the studio at the far end. She moved as if she were going towards it, then returned and went to the head of the stairs. She heard the front door open and listened. Dick Garstin’s big bass voice said in an offhand tone: “Halloh! Thought you weren’t coming! Glad to see you. Come along in!”