"Surely he will not know Jack," Uniacke thought, "since he does not know his own face."
And he felt a faint sense of relief. But this passed away, for the unrest of the Skipper seemed continually to grow more marked and seething. Uniacke noticed it with gathering anxiety. Sir Graham did not observe it. He thought of nothing but his work.
"I shall paint Jack last of all," he said grimly, to Uniacke. "I mean to make a crescendo of horror, and in Jack's figure the loathsomeness of death shall reach a climax. Yes, I will paint him last of all. Perhaps he will come again and pose for me upon that grave." And he laughed as he sat before his easel.
"What painter ever before had such a model?" he said to Uniacke.
And that night after supper, he got up from the table saying:
"I must go and see if Jack will give me a sitting to-night."
Uniacke rose also.
"Let me come with you," he said.
Sir Graham stopped with his hand on the door. There was a smile on his lips, but his eyes were full of foreboding.
"Do you want to see Jack, then?" he asked, with a dreadful feigning of jocularity. "But you are not a painter. You require no model, living or dead." He burst again into a laugh.