Part 125 (2/2)

”Very good of you, Henriques. Good night.”

”Good night, Sir Seymour. Always very glad to do anything for you.”

”Thank you.”

As Sir Seymour stepped out into Brook Street he glanced swiftly up and down the thoroughfare. But he did not see the man he was looking for. He stood still for a moment. There was hesitation in his mind. The natural thing, he felt, would be to go at once to Berkeley Square and to have a talk with Adela. It was late. He was beginning to feel hungry. Adela would give him some dinner. But--could he go to Adela just now? No; he could not. And he hailed a cab and drove home. Something the beast had said had made a horrible impression upon the faithful lover, an impression which remained with him, which seemed to be eating its way, like a powerful acid, into his very soul, corroding, destroying.

Adela--young Craven!

Was it possible? Was there then never to be an end to that mania, which had been Adela's curse, and the tragedy of the man who had loved her with the long love which is so rare among men?

There was bitterness in Sir Seymour's heart that night, and that bitterness sent him home, to the home that was no real home, to the solitude that _she_ had given him.

CHAPTER XV

On the following morning, true to his word, Sir Seymour visited Scotland Yard, and had a talk with a certain authority there who was a very old friend of his. The authority asked a few questions, but no questions that were indiscreet, or that Sir Seymour was unable to answer without betraying Lady Sellingworth's confidence. The sequel to this conversation was that a tall, thin, lemon-coloured man, with tight lips and small, dull-looking eyes, which saw much more than most bright eyes ever see, accompanied Sir Seymour in a cab to Glebe Place. They arrived there about half-past eleven. Sir Seymour rang the bell, and in a moment d.i.c.k Garstin opened the door.

”What's the matter?” was Sir Seymour's unconventional greeting to him.

For the painter's face was flushed in patches and his small eyes glowed fiercely.

”Who's this?” he said, looking at Sir Seymour's companion.

”Detective Inspector Horridge--Mr. d.i.c.k Garstin,” said Sir Seymour.

”Oh, come to see the picture! Well, you're too late!” said Garstin in a harsh voice.

”Too late!”

”Yes, a d.a.m.ned sight too late! But come up!”

They went in, and Garstin, without any more words, took them up to the studio.

”There you are!” he said, still in the harsh and unnatural voice.

He flung out his arm towards the easel which stood in the middle of the room. Sir Seymour and the inspector went up to it. Part of the canvas on which Arabian's portrait had been painted was still there. But the head and face had been cleanly cut away. Only the torso remained.

”When was this done?” asked Sir Seymour.

”Some time last night, I suppose.”

”But--”

”I didn't sleep here. I often don't, more often than not. But last night I was a fool to be away. Well, I've paid for my folly!”

”But how--”

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