I nodded again gravely, and ruminated for a moment. Then I spoke.
"I can write it, fully and in detail, up to five years ago," I said. "You know what happened then. I tried my best to help him, but he never would let me. Tell me, Maschka, why he wouldn't sell me that portrait."
I knew instantly, from her quick confusion, that her brother had spoken to her about the portrait he had refused to sell me, and had probably told her the reason for his refusal. I watched her as she evaded the question as well as she could.
"You know how—queer—he was about who he sold his things to. And as for those five years in which you saw less of him, Schofield will tell you all you want to know."
I relinquished the point. "Who's Schofield?" I asked instead.
"He was a very good friend of Michael's—of both of us. You can talk quite freely to him. I want to say at the beginning that I should like him to be associated with you in this."
I don't know how I divined on the spot her relation to Schofield, whoever he was. She told me that he too was a painter.
"Michael thought very highly of his things," she said.
"I don't know them," I replied.
"You probably wouldn't," she returned….