And he dropped softly, with an odd lightness, into a chair near Sir Seymour, and nodded:
“Now, have I not the right over the picture? Can I not send to-morrow and take it away? Is it not just?”
“Just!” said Sir Seymour. “Do you care so much about justice?”
“Eh?” said Arabian, suddenly leaning forward in his chair. “What is that?”
The bitter sarcasm which Sir Seymour had not been able to keep out of his voice had evidently startled Arabian.
“You are English,” he said, as Sir Seymour said nothing. “Do you not care that a stranger in your country should have justice?”
“Oh, yes. I care very much about that.”
The intense dryness of the voice that answered evidently made an impression on Arabian. For he fixed his eyes on his guest with intense and hard inquiry, and laid his brown hands on the arms of his chair, as if in readiness for something. But he only said:
“Well—please?”
Sir Seymour’s inclination was to get up. But he did not obey it. He sat without moving, and returned Arabian’s stare with a firm, soldier’s gaze. The fearlessness of his eyes was absolute, unflinching.