Sir Seymour’s brick-red, weather-beaten face took on a darker, almost a purplish, hue, and the hand that had been holding the mantelpiece tightened into a fist.
“You will leave this young lady alone,” he said sternly. “Do you hear? You will leave her alone. She knows what you are.”
Arabian had pushed out his full under-lip and was staring now intently at Sir Seymour. His gaze was intense, and yet there was a cloudy look in his eyes. The effect of what he had drunk was certainly increasing upon him in the heat of the rather small room.
“When I came into the studio,” he said after a moment’s silence, “I remembered your face, and, ‘Why is he here?’ That was my thought. Why is he there? Where did I see you?”
“That doesn’t matter. You will give up your acquaintance with Miss Van Tuyn. You will get out of London. And then no measures will be taken against you.”
“Where was it?” persisted Arabian. “Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” said Sir Seymour.
He debated within himself for an instant, and then took a decision.
“I saw you at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly ten years or more ago.”
“At the Ritz!”