Deaves wiped his face. "Mr. Hassell, I hope I can rely on your discretion. You will receive what I am about to tell you in absolute confidence?"
"My dear sir," returned the painter a little testily, "you come to me in this state of agitation about I don't know what. Whatever it is, I hope I will comport myself like a man of honour!"
George Deaves handed over the letter in a hand that trembled. Hassell's face was a study as he read it.
"This is blackmail!" he cried. "And in my name!"
"That's why we came to you," said Deaves—a little unnecessarily it might be thought.
"You surely don't suspect——"
"Certainly not," said Evan quickly—there was no knowing what break Deaves might have made. "But you can help us."
"Of course! This letter names eleven o'clock as the hour." Hassell glanced at his watch. "It's nearly twelve now. Why didn't you come to me earlier—or phone?"
"Well, I didn't know—it didn't occur to me," began Deaves, and stopped with an appealing glance at Evan.
Evan said bluntly: "Mr. Deaves was not acquainted with your name and your work until I told him."