All that she had sometimes fancied, almost dimly, and feared about Arabian was expressed in Garstin’s portrait of him. The man was magnificent on the canvas, but he was horrible. Evil seemed to be subtly expressed all over him. That was what she felt. It looked out of his large brown eyes. But that was not all. Somehow, in some curious and terrible way, Garstin had saturated his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, even his bare neck and shoulders with the hideous thing. Danger was everywhere, the warning that the living man surely did not give, or only gave now and then for a fleeting instant. In Garstin’s picture Arabian was unmistakably a being of the underworld, a being of the darkness, of secret places and hidden deeds, a being of unspeakable craft, of hideous knowledge, of ferocious cynicism. And yet he was marvellously handsome and full of force, even of power. It could not be said that great intellect was stamped on his face, but a fiercely vital mentality was there, a mentality that could frighten and subdue, that could command and be sure of obedience. In the eyes of a tiger there is a terrific mentality. Miss Van Tuyn thought of that as she gazed at the portrait. In her silence now she was trying to get a strong hold on herself. The first shock of astonishment, and almost of horror, had passed. She was more sharply conscious now of Garstin in connexion with herself. At last she spoke again. “Of course you realize, Dick, that such a portrait as that is an outrage. It’s a master work, I believe, but it is an outrage. You cannot exhibit it.” “But I shall. This man, Arabian, isn’t known.” “How can we tell that?” “Do you know a living creature he knows or who knows him?” “Everyone has acquaintances. Everyone almost has friends. He must certainly have both.” “God knows who or where they are.” “You cannot exhibit it,” she repeated obstinately. “I hate art in kid gloves. But this is too merciless. It is more. It is a libel.” “That’s just where you’re wrong.” “No.” “Beryl, my girl, you are lying. That’s no use with me.” “I am not lying!” she said with hot anger. Suddenly she felt that tears had come into her eyes. “How hateful you are!” she exclaimed. She felt frightened under the eyes of the portrait. Garstin’s revelation had struck upon her like a blow. She felt dazed by it. Yet she longed to hit back. She wanted to defend Arabian, perhaps because she felt that she needed defence. Garstin came abruptly round the sofa and sat down by her side. “What’s up?” he said in a kinder voice. “Why do you paint like that? It’s abominable!” “Tell me the honest truth--God’s own truth, as they call it, I don’t know why--is that picture fine, is it my best work, or isn’t it?” “I’ve told you already. It’s a technical masterpiece and a moral outrage. You have taken a man for a model and painted a beast.” “Beryl,” he said almost solemnly, “believe it or not, as you can, that _is_ Arabian!”