"That is what I have come about," she said, with an involuntary and shrinking glance at the sketches on the walls.
"What you have come about?" he said, putting down his cup of tea and looking at her intently. "How are you concerned? Where do you come in?"
"There is a man—he has been arrested with the others; with Farrar, Phillips, Hammond, and the rest—"
"Oh, that's bad! A relative, or—"
"Not a relative, exactly," she replied in a tone of irony. Rising, she went over to the wall and touched one of the water-colour sketches.
"How did you come by these?" she asked.
"Blantyre's sketches? Well, it's all I ever got for all Blantyre owed me, and they're not bad. They're lifted out of the life. That's why I bought them. Also because I liked to think I got something out of Blantyre; and that he would wish I hadn't. He could paint a bit—don't you think so?"
"He could paint a bit—always," she replied.
A silence followed. Her back was turned to him, her face was towards the pictures.
Presently he spoke, with a little deferential anxiety in the tone. "Are you interested in Blantyre?" he asked, cautiously. Getting up, he came over to her.