Her tea, on a little table at the other end of the studio, remained untouched. Her hair fell in loose strands over her forehead, and she pushed it back every now and then with impatient fingers. The front-door bell rang, and soon her maid appeared at the gallery door. “A gentleman to see you, ma’am.” “I can’t see anybody. You know I can’t. Tell him to go away.” The maid came down the stairs. “I told him you weren’t in to anybody—but he insisted. He hadn’t a card, but wrote his name on a slip of paper. Here it is, ma’am.” Clementina angrily took the slip; “Mr. Vandermeer would be glad to see Miss Wing on the most urgent business.” “Tell him I can’t see him.” The maid mounted the stairs. Vandermeer? Vandermeer? Where had she heard that name before? Suddenly she remembered. “All right. Show him down here,” she shouted to the disappearing maid. She might just as well see him. If she sent him away the buzzing worry of conjecture as to his urgent business would flitter about her mind. She threw down her palette and brush and impatiently rubbed her hands together. Into what shape of moral flaccidity was she weakening? Five months ago all the urgent business of all the Vandermeers in the world could go hang when she was painting and could not get a thing right. Why should she be different now from the Clementina of five months ago? Why, why, why? With exasperated hands she further confounded the confusion of her hair. The introduction of Vandermeer put a stop to these questionings. She received him, arms akimbo, at a short distance from the foot of the stairs. “I must apologise, Miss Wing, for this intrusion,” said he, “but perhaps you may remember——” “Yes, yes,” she interrupted. “Ham-and-beef shop, which you transmogrified into a restaurant. Also Mr. Burgrave. What do you want? I’m very busy.” The sight of the mean little figure holding his felt hat with both hands in front of him, with his pointed face, ferret eyes, and red, crinkly hair, did not in any way redeem her remembered impression. “A very grave danger is threatening Dr. Quixtus,” said he. “It is impossible for me to warn him myself, so I have come to you, as a friend of his.” “Danger?” cried Clementina, taken off her guard. “What kind of danger?” “You will only understand, if I tell you rather a long story. But first I must have your promise of secrecy as far as I am concerned.” “Don’t like secrecy,” said Clementina. “You can take whatever action you like,” he said, hastily. “It’s in order that you may act in his interest that I’m here. I only want you to give me your word that you won’t compromise me personally. I assure you, you’ll see why when I tell you the story.” Clementina reflected for a moment. It was a danger threatening Quixtus. It might be important. This little weasel of a man was of no account. “All right,” she said. “I give my word. Go ahead.”