"Perhaps not," was the answer; "but I have seen her out of the theater. I dropped in at Forbes's studio the other day. He was finishing a bust of her, and she was giving him a sitting. It is a jolly good bust, but the woman—"
"Is she pretty?" asked the other.
"Upon my word, I don't know; what I do know is that I wanted to look at her all the time, and when she had gone life seemed to have left the studio."
I did not know the speaker, but I did not lose sight of him until I had tracked him to a club in Piccadilly and discovered that his name was Tenfield, and that he was a partner in a firm of art dealers in Bond Street.
When I repeated this conversation to Quarles he wondered why I had taken so much trouble over the art dealer.
"Looking for a clue," I answered.
Quarles shrugged his shoulders.
"What did you think of the portrait?"
"Frankly, not much."
"But you got an impression of Madame Vatrotski's character."