Part 116 (2/2)

But when he opened the door he found standing outside in the foggy darkness a tall, soldierly old man, with an upright figure, white hair, and moustache, a lined red face and dark eyes which looked straight into his.

”Who are you, sir?” said Garstin. ”And what do you want?”

”Are you Mr. d.i.c.k Garstin?” said the old man.

”Or rather, elderly,” Garstin now said to himself, glancing sharply over his visitor's strong, lean frame and broad shoulders.

”Yes, I am.”

The stranger opened a leather case and took out a card.

”Perhaps you will kindly read that.”

Garstin took the card.

”Beryl!” he said. ”What's up?”

And he read: ”To introduce Sir Seymour Portman, _please see him_. B. V.

T.”

”Are you Sir Seymour Portman?”

”Yes.”

”Come in.”

Sir Seymour stepped in.

”Take off your coat?”

”If you'll allow me. I won't keep you long.”

”The longer the better!” said Garstin with offhand heartiness. He had taken a liking to his visitor at first sight.

”A d.a.m.ned fine old chap!” had been his instant mental comment on seeing Sir Seymour. ”A fellow to swear by!”

”Come upstairs. I'll show you the way,” he added.

He tramped up and Sir Seymour followed him.

”I do most of my painting here,” said Garstin. ”Sit down. Have a cigar.”

”Thank you very much, but I won't smoke,” said Sir Seymour, looking round casually at the portraits in the room before sitting down and crossing his right leg over his left leg. ”And I won't take up your time for more than a few minutes.”

At this moment he noticed at some distance the portrait of Arabian on its easel, and he put up his eyegla.s.ses. Then he moved.

”Will you allow me to look at that portrait over there?” he asked.

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