A minute passed. Then Gavegan reentered, a puzzled, half-triumphant look on his red face, holding out a square of paint-covered canvas.
“Found this thing in Brainard's chiffonier. What the he—I mean what's it doing out here?”
There was not an instant's doubt as to what the thing was. Larry started, and Hunt started, and Miss Sherwood started. But it was Miss Sherwood who first spoke.
“Why, it's a portrait of Miss Cameron, in costume! And painted by Mr. Hunt!” In amazement she turned first upon Larry and upon Hunt. “When did you ever paint her portrait, when you did not meet Miss Cameron till you met her here? And, Mr. Brainard, how do you come to possess Miss Cameron's portrait?”
It was Gavegan who spoke up promptly, and not either of the two suddenly discomfited men. And Gavegan instantly sensed in the situation a chance to get even for the humiliation his self-esteem had just suffered.
“Miss Cameron nothing! Her real name is Maggie Carlisle, and she used to live at a dump of a pawnshop down on the East Side run by Brainard's grandmother. Brainard knew her there, and so did Mr. Hunt.”
“But—but—” gasped Miss Sherwood—“she's been coming out here as Maggie Cameron!”
“I tell you your Maggie Cameron is Maggie Carlisle!” said Gavegan gloatingly. “I've known her for years. Her father is Old Jimmie Carlisle, a notorious crook. And she's mixed up right now with her father and some others in a crooked game. And Brainard here used to be sweet on her, and probably still is, and if he's been letting her come here, without telling you who she is—well, I guess you know the answer. Didn't I tell you, Miss, that give me a chance and I'd turn up something against this guy Brainard!”
Miss Sherwood's face was white, but set with grim accusation that was only waiting to pronounce swift judgment. “Mr. Hunt, is it true that Miss Cameron is this Maggie Carlisle the officer mentions, and that you knew it all the while?”
“Yes—” began the painter.