“What’s that for?”
He stared into Sir Seymour’s face for an instant. Perhaps he read something there. For he seemed to pull himself together, and got up.
“Well, inspector,” he said, “you’ve had your visit for nothing. It wasn’t a bad picture, either. I should like you to have had a squint at it. But—perhaps I’ll do better yet. Who knows? Perhaps I’ve stuck to those Cafe Royal types too long. Eh, Sir Seymour? Perhaps I’d better make a start in a new line. Have a whisky?”
“Thank you. But it’s rather too early,” said the lemon-coloured man. “Do you wish—”
“No, I don’t!” said Garstin. “We’ll leave it at that?”
Again he flung out his arm towards the mutilated canvas.
“I made a bargain with the fellow whose portrait that was. I was to paint it and exhibit it, and then he was to have it. Well, I suppose we’re about quits. I can’t exhibit it, but I’m damned if he can make much money out of it. We’re quits!”
Sir Seymour turned to the inspector.
“Well, inspector, I’m very sorry to have given you this trouble for nothing,” he said. “I know you’re a busy man. You take the cab back to Scotland Yard. Here—you must allow me to pay the shot. I’ll stay on for a few minutes. And”—he glanced towards Garstin—“by the way, we may as well keep this matter between us, if Mr. Garstin is good enough to agree.”
“I agree! I agree!” said Garstin.