Dunwoodie nodded. "His daughter."
Jeroloman, bending over, recovered his hat. Before it, a picture floated. It represented an assassin's child gutting the estate of a son whom the father had murdered. It was a bit too cubist. Somewhere he had seen another picture of that school. It showed a young woman falling downstairs. He did not know but that he might reproduce it. At least he could try. Meanwhile it was just as well to take the model's measure and again his eyes fastened on Dunwoodie.
"What do you suggest?"
Dunwoodie, loosening his clasped hands, beat with the fingers a tattoo on his waistcoat.
"Let me see. There is 'The Raven,' the first primer, the multiplication table. Is it for your enlightenment that you ask?"
Jeroloman moistened his lips. Precise, careful, capable, intensely respectable, none the less he could have struck him. A moment only. From the sleeve of his coat he flicked, or affected to flick, a speck.
"Yes, thank you, for my enlightenment. You have not told me what your client wants."
"What a woman wants is usually beyond masculine comprehension."
Methodically Jeroloman dusted his hat. "You might enquire. We, none of us, favour litigation. In the interests of my client I always try to avoid it and, while at present. I have no authority, yet——Well, well! Between ourselves, how would a ponderable amount, four or five thousand, how would that do?"
Blandly Dunwoodie looked at this man, who was trying to take Cassy's measure.