There was in my soul a perfectly genuine horror of Strickland, and side by side with it a cold curiosity to discover his motives. I was puzzled by him, and I was eager to see how he regarded the tragedy he had caused in the lives of people who had used him with so much kindness. I applied the scalpel boldly. “Stroeve told me that picture you painted of his wife was the best thing you’ve ever done.” Strickland took his pipe out of his mouth, and a smile lit up his eyes. “It was great fun to do.” “Why did you give it him?” “I’d finished it. It wasn’t any good to me.” “Do you know that Stroeve nearly destroyed it?” “It wasn’t altogether satisfactory.” He was quiet for a moment or two, then he took his pipe out of his mouth again, and chuckled. “Do you know that the little man came to see me?” “Weren’t you rather touched by what he had to say?” “No; I thought it damned silly and sentimental.” “I suppose it escaped your memory that you’d ruined his life?” I remarked. He rubbed his bearded chin reflectively. “He’s a very bad painter.” “But a very good man.” “And an excellent cook,” Strickland added derisively. His callousness was inhuman, and in my indignation I was not inclined to mince my words. “As a mere matter of curiosity I wish you’d tell me, have you felt the smallest twinge of remorse for Blanche Stroeve’s death?” I watched his face for some change of expression, but it remained impassive. “Why should I?” he asked. “Let me put the facts before you. You were dying, and Dirk Stroeve took you into his own house. He nursed you like a mother. He sacrificed his time and his comfort and his money for you. He snatched you from the jaws of death.” Strickland shrugged his shoulders. “The absurd little man enjoys doing things for other people. That’s his life.” “Granting that you owed him no gratitude, were you obliged to go out of your way to take his wife from him? Until you came on the scene they were happy. Why couldn’t you leave them alone?” “What makes you think they were happy?” “It was evident.” “You are a discerning fellow. Do you think she could ever have forgiven him for what he did for her?” “What do you mean by that?” “Don’t you know why he married her?” I shook my head. “She was a governess in the family of some Roman prince, and the son of the house seduced her. She thought he was going to marry her. They turned her out into the street neck and crop. She was going to have a baby, and she tried to commit suicide. Stroeve found her and married her.” “It was just like him. I never knew anyone with so compassionate a heart.”