Was it possible? Was there then never to be an end to that mania, which had been Adela’s curse, and the tragedy of the man who had loved her with the long love which is so rare among men?
There was bitterness in Sir Seymour’s heart that night, and that bitterness sent him home, to the home that was no real home, to the solitude that she had given him.
CHAPTER XV
On the following morning, true to his word, Sir Seymour visited Scotland Yard, and had a talk with a certain authority there who was a very old friend of his. The authority asked a few questions, but no questions that were indiscreet, or that Sir Seymour was unable to answer without betraying Lady Sellingworth’s confidence. The sequel to this conversation was that a tall, thin, lemon-coloured man, with tight lips and small, dull-looking eyes, which saw much more than most bright eyes ever see, accompanied Sir Seymour in a cab to Glebe Place. They arrived there about half-past eleven. Sir Seymour rang the bell, and in a moment Dick Garstin opened the door.
“What’s the matter?” was Sir Seymour’s unconventional greeting to him.
For the painter’s face was flushed in patches and his small eyes glowed fiercely.
“Who’s this?” he said, looking at Sir Seymour’s companion.
“Detective Inspector Horridge—Mr. Dick Garstin,” said Sir Seymour.
“Oh, come to see the picture! Well, you’re too late!” said Garstin in a harsh voice.