There was a knock upon the studio door.
"Hullo! A patron?" said Hillary.
"A dun more probably," muttered Lucas.
He opened the door and found himself confronting the rubicund countenance and imposing form of Heriot Walkingshaw. Over the shoulder of this apparition he looked into the clear eyes of Frank. They were trying to convey a caution to use whatever tact he possessed; but the artist was too dumbfounded to heed them.
"Well?" he demanded.
CHAPTER V
"Good-day, Mr. Vernon," said his guest.