Charles saw Craddock, from where he stood, just behind Mr. Ward, give him an almost imperceptible nod, to confirm this valuation. If he had not seen that it is very likely that he would have accepted this offer without correction. As it was that signal revolted him. It put him into partnership with ... with the man in whose studio he now stood. Now and for all future time there could be nothing either secret or manifest between them. "You have made a mistake about the price," he said to Ward. "I only charge two hundred for a portrait. I shall be delighted to paint you for that." From a little way off he heard Frank make the noise which is written "Tut," and he saw a puzzled look cross Craddock's face, who just shrugged his shoulders, and turned on his heel. "I am very busy for the rest of this week," said Charles, "but after that I shall be free." He glanced at Craddock, who had moved away, and was looking at the portrait of Mrs. Fortescue. "I am changing my studio," said Charles in a low voice. "I will send you my new address." Craddock did not hear this, but Frank did. It seemed to him, with his quick wits, to supply a key to certain things Charles had said that morning. He felt no doubt of it. Mr. Ward involved himself in a somewhat flowery speech of _congé_. "Next week will suit me admirably," he said, "and I shall think it an honour to sit to you. The only thing that does not quite satisfy me is the question of price. You must allow me at some future time to refer to that again. The picture I may tell you is designed to be a birthday present for Mrs. Ward, and though the intrinsic merit of the picture, I am sure, will be such that the donor--" he became aware that he could never get out of this labyrinth, and so burst, so to speak, through the hedge--"well, we must talk about it. And now I see I have already interrupted a sitting, and will interrupt no longer. Mr. Craddock, I shall take you away to have some conversation in our taxi about that picture of Mr. Lathom's mother." Charles saw them to the door, and came back to Frank. "I suppose you guess," he said. "Well, you've guessed right." He threw himself into a chair. "He has swindled Mr. Wroughton," he said. "He has swindled me, me, of a paltry wretched fifty pounds, which is worse, meaner than the other." "And Mr. Wroughton?" asked Frank. "He gave him five thousand for the Reynolds, receiving ten. That's not so despicable: there's some point in that. But to save fifty pounds, when he was giving me this studio, getting me commissions, doing everything for me! There's that damned telephone: see who it is, will you?" Frank went to the instrument. "Lady Crowborough," he said. "She wants to see you particularly, very particularly. Can you go to her house at three?" "Yes," said Charles. He got up from his chair, white and shaking. "There may be something worse, Frank," he said. "She may have something to tell, much worse than this. Good God, I wish I had never seen him."