"She painted three or four crude portraits for people here in town, but they've long since been banished to the garret—where they belong. She had talent, but she lacked training."
"She interests me, somehow," I said. "I don't know why. Is the portrait a good one?"
"It isn't a portrait—it's rather an impression of her. As an impression, it's very good."
He opened his mouth as though to say something more, then thought better of it.
"You haven't told me yet," he added, as I rose to go, "whether you've heard anything more from Miss Lawrence. To-day's tragedy has so far outdone yesterday's that I nearly forgot to ask you."
"I believe she's out in mid-ocean now," I said, and related briefly the incident of the telegram and of Burr Curtiss's starting in pursuit. "He'll meet her at Liverpool," I concluded, "and they can fight out their battle there."
"Yes," he nodded. "God grant they find it not too bitter."
Godfrey was awaiting me at the hotel, and I told him in detail of Dr. Schuyler's revelation, pointing out at the same time—not without some obvious exultation—how, at a breath, it overthrew his elaborately developed theory.
"Well, we're all liable to make mistakes at times," he said good-humouredly. "Now that we're on the right track, I don't think there'll be much difficulty in working the whole thing out."