He pointed at the picture as he spoke. His keen eyes, half shut, were fixed upon it. “That _is_ the real man, and what you see is only the appearance he chooses to give of himself.” “How do you know? How can you know that?” “Haven’t I the power to show men and women as in essence they are?” His eyes travelled round the big studio slowly, travelled from canvas to canvas, from the battered old siren of the streets to the girl who was dreaming of sins not yet committed; from Cora waiting for her prey to the judge who had condemned his. “Haven’t I? And don’t you know it?” “You are wrong this time,” she said with mutinous determination, but still with the tears in her eyes. “You couldn’t sum up Arabian. You tried and tried again. And now at last you have forced yourself to paint him. You have got angry. That’s it. You have got furious with yourself and with him, because of your own impotence, and you have painted him in a passion.” “Oh, no!” He shook his head. “I never felt colder, more completely master of myself and my passions, than when I painted that portrait.” “But you asked me to find out his secret. You pushed me into his company that I might find it out and help you.” “I did!” “Well!” she said, almost triumphantly, “I have never found it out.” “Oh, yes, you have.” “No. He is the most reserved, uncommunicative man I have ever known.” “Subconsciously you have found it out, and you have conveyed it to me. And that is the result. I suspected what the man was the first time I laid eyes on him. When I got him here I seemed to get off the track of him. For he’s very deceptive--somehow. Yes, he’s damned deceptive. But then you put me wise. Your growing terror of him put me wise.” He looked hard into her eyes. “Beryl, my girl, your sex has intuitions. One of them, one of yours, I have painted. And there it is!” The bell sounded below. “Ha!” said Garstin, turning his head sharply. He listened for an instant. Then he said: “I’ll bet you anything you like that’s the king himself.” “The king?” “In the underworld. Did you walk here?” “Yes.” “He must have seen you. He’s followed you. What a lark!” His eyes shone with a sort of malicious glee. “There goes the bell again! Beryl, I’ll have him up. We’ll show him himself.” He put a finger to his lips and went down, leaving her alone with the portrait. CHAPTER III “Come up! Come up, my boy! I’ve something to show you!” She heard steps mounting the stairs, and got up from the sofa. She looked once more at the portrait, then turned round to meet the two men, standing so that she was directly in front of it. Just then she had a wish to conceal it from Arabian, to delay, if only for a moment, his knowledge of what had been done. Arabian came into the studio and saw her in her mourning facing him. At once he came up to her with Dick Garstin behind him. He looked grave, sympathetic, almost reverential. His brown eyes held a tender expression of kindness.