“What did you go to Dick Garstin for?”
“That is my business.”
Sir Seymour got up slowly, very deliberately even, from his chair.
“My secret, you say. What do you know about me?”
In the voice there was intense suspicion.
“We needn’t discuss that. I am not going to discuss it.”
“What did you go to Dick Garstin for?”
“I went to ask him if he would allow me to bring two or three people to his studio to look at his portrait of you.”
“My portrait! What is my portrait to you? Why should you bring people?”
But Sir Seymour did not answer the question. Instead he put one hand on the mantelpiece, leaned slightly towards Arabian, and said: