He sat there, very still, for a long time, while I watched him. I think he had forgotten all about me, for, after a time, he rose and pulled out of a closet some unframed canvasses, which he scattered against the legs of furniture and contemplated.
"Think I'll make a bonfire of them," he suddenly said. "Won't be such an idiot as to keep on staring at those things and looking at my stump, I'll warrant," and he pushed the handless wrist towards me, tied up in a bit of black silk.
Then the telephone rang.
"Wonder who's the infernal idiot calling up now?" he said. "Go and answer, Dave. No, I'll go myself and tell him to go to the devil!"
Then came one of those fragmentary conversations. I could not help hearing it, of course. It surprised me that he spoke quietly, with a civility of tone and accent I had not expected.
"Yes, came back a few minutes ago——No, Dave ran up here with me, Dave Cole, you know——Oh! Nothing much——Well, I've lost my hand, the one I painted with——Yes, I shall be glad to have you do so——Right away? Yes, if you want to, I mean if you will be so kind. Thank you ever so much!"
He hung up the receiver and turned to me, his eyes looking rather haggard.
"It's—it's Sophia Van Rossum. How did she know I was coming?"
"I let her know, of course," I answered rather shortly.
"You think I've treated her pretty badly, don't you?"