Garstin said nothing. She turned and went up the staircase to the big studio. On an easel nearly in the middle of the room, and not very far from the portrait of the judge, there was a sketch of Nicolas Arabian’s head, neck and shoulders. No collar or clothes were shown. Garstin had told Arabian flatly that he wasn’t going to paint a magnificent torso like his concealed by infernal linen and serge, and Arabian had been quite willing that his neck and shoulders should be painted in the nude. In the strong light of the studio Garstin’s unusual appearance of fatigue was more noticeable, and Miss Van Tuyn could not help saying: “What on earth have you been doing, Dick? You always seem made of iron. But to-day you look like an ordinary man who has been dissipating.” “I played poker all night,” said Garstin. “With Arabian?” “And two other fellows--picked them up at the Cafe Royal.” “Well, I hope you won.” “No, I didn’t. Both Arabian and I lost a lot. We played here.” “Here!” “Yes. And I haven’t had a wink since they left. I don’t suppose he’ll turn up. And if he does I shan’t be able to do anything at it.” He went to stand in front of the sketch, which was in oils, and stared at it with lack-lustre eyes. “What d’you think of it?” he said at last. Miss Van Tuyn was rather surprised by the question. Garstin was not in the habit of asking other people’s opinions about his work. “It’s rather difficult to say,” she said, with some hesitation. “That means you think it’s rotten.” “No. But it isn’t finished and--I don’t know.” “Well, I hate it.” He turned away, sat down on a divan, and let his big knuckly hands drop down between his knees. “Fact is, I haven’t got at the fellow’s secret,” he said meditatively. “I got a first impression--” He paused. “I know!” said Miss Van Tuyn, deeply interested. “You told me what it was.” “The successful blackmailer. Yes. But now I don’t know. I can’t make him out. He’s the hardest nut to crack I ever came across.” He moved his long lips from side to side three or four times, then pursed them up, lifted his small eyes, which had been staring between his feet at a Persian rug on the parquet in front of the divan, looked at Miss Van Tuyn, who was standing before him, and said: “That’s why I sat up all night playing poker with him.” “Ah!” she said, beginning to understand She sat down beside him, turned towards him, and said eagerly: “You wanted to get really to know him?” “Yes; but I didn’t. The fellow’s an enigma. He’s bad. And that’s practically all I know about him.” He glanced with distaste at the sketch he had made. “And it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough by a damned long way.” “Is he a good loser?” she asked. “The best I ever saw. Never turned a hair, and went away looking as fresh as a well-watered gardenia, damn him!” “Who were the others?” “Two Americans I’ve seen now and then at the Cafe Royal. I believe they live mostly in Paris.” “Friends of his?”