Mrs. Strickland frowned a little. She was searching among her recollections. “I remember before we were married he used to potter about with a paint-box. But you never saw such daubs. We used to chaff him. He had absolutely no gift for anything like that.” “Of course it’s only an excuse,” said Mrs. MacAndrew. Mrs. Strickland pondered deeply for some time. It was quite clear that she could not make head or tail of my announcement. She had put some order into the drawing-room by now, her housewifely instincts having got the better of her dismay; and it no longer bore that deserted look, like a furnished house long to let, which I had noticed on my first visit after the catastrophe. But now that I had seen Strickland in Paris it was difficult to imagine him in those surroundings. I thought it could hardly have failed to strike them that there was something incongruous in him. “But if he wanted to be an artist, why didn’t he say so?” asked Mrs. Strickland at last. “I should have thought I was the last person to be unsympathetic to—to aspirations of that kind.” Mrs. MacAndrew tightened her lips. I imagine that she had never looked with approval on her sister’s leaning towards persons who cultivated the arts. She spoke of “culchaw” derisively. Mrs. Strickland continued: “After all, if he had any talent I should be the first to encourage it. I wouldn’t have minded sacrifices. I’d much rather be married to a painter than to a stockbroker. If it weren’t for the children, I wouldn’t mind anything. I could be just as happy in a shabby studio in Chelsea as in this flat.” “My dear, I have no patience with you,” cried Mrs. MacAndrew. “You don’t mean to say you believe a word of this nonsense?” “But I think it’s true,” I put in mildly. She looked at me with good-humoured contempt. “A man doesn’t throw up his business and leave his wife and children at the age of forty to become a painter unless there’s a woman in it. I suppose he met one of your—artistic friends, and she’s turned his head.” A spot of colour rose suddenly to Mrs. Strickland’s pale cheeks. “What is she like?” I hesitated a little. I knew that I had a bombshell. “There isn’t a woman.” Colonel MacAndrew and his wife uttered expressions of incredulity, and Mrs. Strickland sprang to her feet. “Do you mean to say you never saw her?” “There’s no one to see. He’s quite alone.” “That’s preposterous,” cried Mrs. MacAndrew. “I knew I ought to have gone over myself,” said the Colonel. “You can bet your boots I’d have routed her out fast enough.” “I wish you had gone over,” I replied, somewhat tartly. “You’d have seen that every one of your suppositions was wrong. He’s not at a smart hotel. He’s living in one tiny room in the most squalid way. If he’s left his home, it’s not to live a gay life. He’s got hardly any money.” “Do you think he’s done something that we don’t know about, and is lying doggo on account of the police?”