Sylvester uttered a hasty negative.
"Oh, no! He is not the sort of man who would. But other people talk. You see, I'm afraid there's some sort of black-mail going on, and he oughtn't to submit to it. His friends oughtn't to allow it. If—if one could see the woman and frighten her a little——"
"Is that what you wanted me for?" asked Oswyn impatiently. "If so, allow me——"
The other hastened to reassure him.
"Oh, no, not at all. But I thought you might be able to tell me where the person is to be found, her address, or something about her. I understand that she was a model; you probably know her…."
The painter shrugged his shoulders.
"Who is she? What is her name?"
"Kitty—that's all I know."
"Kitty? Kitty Crichton, I suppose."
A light dawned on him; the name opened a door to many forgotten trivial incidents. He did not speak again for a minute, and when he broke the silence there was a harder tone in his voice, and he rose from his chair at the same time.