"That depends upon what you want of me," answered Oswyn shrewdly. "You said in your note that it was on a matter of vital importance to a friend of mine. I haven't so many friends that I can afford to shirk a little trouble in a matter which vitally concerns one of them. May I ask, in the first place, who is the friend?"
Sylvester picked up the open brief which lay before him on the table, and folded it scrupulously.
"Philip Rainham," he answered, and then shot a quick glance at
Oswyn.
"Rainham?" echoed the other with an air suggestive at once of surprise and relief, as if, perhaps, he had been expecting to hear another name. "You are right, he is a friend," he added simply. "What can I do for him?"
"Well, the fact is, I'm afraid he's got into difficulties—a scrape, an imbroglio, with a woman!"
The painter lifted his expressive eyebrows incredulously.
"Since I last saw him—three days ago?"
"Oh, dear, no; the thing's been going on, I should say, for quite a long time—more than a year to my knowledge."
Oswyn reflected for a moment, gazing at Sylvester with some suspicion.
"I don't think it troubles him much," he said brusquely. "Is it any business of mine—or of yours? Has he spoken to you about it?"