“The fact is there’s a woman in it, quite a girl. We don’t want a scandal. It would distress her. And I suppose this is really—this outrage—I suppose it is purely a matter for Mr. Garstin to decide whether he wishes any sequel to it or not.”
“Oh, certainly,” said the inspector. “If Mr. Garstin doesn’t wish any action to be taken—”
“I don’t! That’s flat!”
“Very well,” said the inspector. “Good morning.”
“Back in a moment,” said Garstin to Sir Seymour. And he went downstairs to let the inspector out.
“So that’s how it ends!” said Sir Seymour to himself when he was alone. “That’s how it ends!”
And he went over to what had been Arabian’s portrait, and gazed at the hole which surmounted the magnificent torso. He had no doubt that Arabian had gone out of Miss Van Tuyn’s life for ever. Probably, almost certainly, he had returned to the hotel on the previous evening, had been given the note Miss Van Tuyn had written to dictation, and also a hint from that very discreet and capable fellow, Henriques, of what might happen if he persisted in trying to force himself upon her. And then he had come to the decision which had led to the outrage in the studio. Where was he now? No longer in Rose Tree Gardens if Sir Seymour knew anything of men.
“The morning boat to Paris, and—the underworld!” Sir Seymour muttered to himself.
“Not much to look at now, is it?” said Garstin’s voice behind him.
He turned round quickly.