Out of the hall there opened various doors. Greville Howard pushed open one, already ajar, and Katty walked through into what she at once realised was her companion's own habitual living-room.
With all her cleverness, and her acquaintance with the art-furnishing jargon of the day, Katty would have been surprised to know the value of the contents of this comparatively small room. It contained some notable examples of the best period of early French Empire furniture. This was specially true of the mahogany and brass inlaid dwarf bookcases which ran round three sides of the apartment. Above the bookcases, against the turquoise-blue silk with which the walls were hung, were a number of Meissonier's paintings of Napoleon.
On the mantelpiece was a marble bust of the young Cæsar as First Consul, and above it a delightful portrait of Mademoiselle Georges, by Gérard. As he briefly informed his visitor of the portrait's identity, Mr. Greville Howard felt just a little disappointed that Mrs. Winslow did not seem more interested.
During the last quarter of an hour he had recaptured what at the time of the affair had been a very definite impression as to the relations of his present visitor and the Wiltshire banker. But now, seeing Katty there before him, looking so much at her ease, so—so ladylike (Mr. Greville Howard's own word), he hesitated.
"Pray sit down," he said courteously, "and make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Winslow. It's getting rather chilly."
Her host put on another log as he spoke, and pulled a low, easy chair up close to the fire. And then he himself sat down, at right angles to his attractive guest, in a curiously-shaped winged chair which had once been part of the furniture in the Empress Joséphine's music-room at Malmaison.
CHAPTER XXIV
IT had been a little after three o'clock when Katty Winslow entered Mr. Greville Howard's study—and now it was half-past four. The room had grown gradually darker, but the fire threw out a glimmering light on the faces of the two sitting there.
All at once Katty realised, with a sense of acute discomfiture, that as yet her host had said nothing—nothing, at least, that mattered. He had drawn out of her, with extraordinary patience, courtesy, and intelligence, all that she could tell him—of what had happened before, and about the time of, Godfrey Pavely's death.