Then, unasked, the Conte placed his glass in his eye, took out a cigarette, and gave it a wave.
“May I?” he said.
Armstrong bowed coldly, and the little, wrinkled, elderly-looking man struck a scented fusee, lit his cigarette, glanced round and seated himself.
“And how do the fine arts march?” he said cheerily. “By the way,” he continued, without waiting to be answered, “my dear Mr Dale, I was close by, and I thought I would call to ask if you have reconsidered that decision of yours?”
“My decision?” said Dale, following his example.
“Yes; about her ladyship’s portrait. We were discussing it this morning. I believe I introduced the subject, but her ladyship took to it eagerly. You will go on with it?”
“Surely, my lord, there are plenty of better artists in London who will be glad to undertake the commission,” said Dale quietly.
“Perhaps so, but you began the sketch, and we were so well satisfied that we wish you to continue it.”
“Then he suspects nothing,” Armstrong said to himself; and for the moment he felt ready to agree to the proposal. But directly after, a suspicious idea came to him. Suppose this were a deeply laid plan to entice him to the Conte’s place, so that an opportunity might be afforded for a discovery?
He had gone through so much excitement of late that his brain felt confused, and he was unable to calculate coolly. At the first he had decided in his own mind that the Conte must be aware of his wife’s visits to the studio, and had now tracked her there. All this talk then was for some ulterior reason, and in all probability he was waiting for an excuse to search the place, or else to trap her when she tried to leave. For aught the young artist knew, there might be half-a-dozen spies about the place, waiting to see her go, and his brow grew rugged with the intensity of his thoughts.