“Too late!”
“Yes, a damned sight too late! But come up!”
They went in, and Garstin, without any more words, took them up to the studio.
“There you are!” he said, still in the harsh and unnatural voice.
He flung out his arm towards the easel which stood in the middle of the room. Sir Seymour and the inspector went up to it. Part of the canvas on which Arabian’s portrait had been painted was still there. But the head and face had been cleanly cut away. Only the torso remained.
“When was this done?” asked Sir Seymour.
“Some time last night, I suppose.”
“But—”
“I didn’t sleep here. I often don’t, more often than not. But last night I was a fool to be away. Well, I’ve paid for my folly!”
“But how—”