“I know I am late,” said a warm voice--the voice of a man. “For me this place has been rather difficult to find. I am not well acquainted with the painters’ quarter of London.” A door banged heavily. Then Miss Van Tuyn heard steps, and again the warm voice saying: “I see you do caricatures. Or are these not by you?” “Every one of them!” said Garstin. “Except that. That’s a copy I made of one of Leonardo’s horrors. It’s fine. It’s a thing to live with.” “Leonardo--ah, yes!” said the voice. “I wonder if that man has ever heard of Leonardo?” was Miss Van Tuyn’s thought just then. “Up those stairs right ahead of you,” said Garstin. Miss Van Tuyn quickly drew back and sat down again on the sofa. An instant after she had done so the living bronze appeared at the top of the stairs, and his big brown eyes rested on her. No expression either of surprise, or of anything else, came into his face as he saw her. And she realized immediately that whatever else this man was he was supremely self-possessed. Yet he had turned away from her shilling. Why was that? In that moment she began to wonder about him. He stood still, waiting for Garstin to join him. As he did this he looked formal but amazingly handsome, though there were some lines about his eyes which she had not noticed in the Cafe Royal. He was dressed in a dark town suit and wore a big double-breasted overcoat. He was holding a black bowler hat, a pair of thick white gloves and a silver-topped stick. As Garstin joined him, Miss Van Tuyn slowly got up from her sofa. “A friend of mine--Beryl Van Tuyn,” said Garstin. “Come to have a look round at what I’m up to.” (He glanced at Miss Van Tuyn.) “Mr. Arabian,” he added. “Take off your coat, won’t you? Throw it anywhere.” Arabian bowed to Miss Van Tuyn, still looking formal and as if she were a total stranger whom he had never set eyes on before. She bowed to him. As she did so she thought that he was a little older than she had supposed. He was certainly over thirty. She wondered about his nationality and suspected that very mixed blood ran in his veins. Somehow, in spite of his quite extraordinary good looks, she felt almost certain that he was not a pure type of any nation. In her mind she dubbed him on the spot “a marvellous mongrel.” He obeyed Garstin’s suggestion, took off his coat, and laid it with his hat, gloves and stick on a chair close to the staircase. Then for the first time he spoke to Miss Van Tuyn, who was still standing. “I always love a studio, mademoiselle,” he said, “and when Mr. Dick Garstin”--he pronounced the name with careful clearness--“was good enough to invite me to his I was very thankful. His pictures are famous.” “You’ve been getting me up,” said Garstin bluntly. “Reading ‘Who’s Who’!” Arabian raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?” “Don’t be absurd and put on false modesty, Dick,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “As if you weren’t known to everyone!”