The Deaves limousine was available, and a few minutes later George Deaves and Evan were being shown into the reception room of a magnificent studio apartment on Art's most fashionable street. George Deaves was visibly impressed by the magnificence. It was rather an unusual hour to pay a call perhaps, but the Deaves name was an open sesame. A millionaire and a potential picture-buyer! the great man himself came hurrying to greet them. He was a handsome man of middle age with a lion-like head, and the affable, assured manner of a citizen of the world.
He showed them into the studio, a superb room, but severe and workmanlike according to the modern usage. Before they were well-seated, an attendant, knowing his duty well, began to pull out canvases.
"I—I didn't come to talk to you about pictures," stammered George Deaves.
At a sign from his master the man left the room. Mr. Hassell waited politely to be enlightened.
Poor George Deaves floundered about. "It's such a delicate matter—I'm sure I don't know what you will think—I scarcely know how to tell you——"
Hassell began to look alarmed. He said: "Mr. Deaves, I beg you will be plain with me."
Deaves turned hopelessly to Evan. "You tell him."
"Better show him the letter," said Evan.
"The letter?" said Deaves in a panic, "what letter? I don't understand you."
"We came to tell him," said Evan. "We've either got to tell him or go."