“Why not?”
“The artist don’t like strangers. I will order you what you want.”
“That will not do. I prefer to talk over the subjects with the painter.”
The dwarf turned again and gave me a probing look, and again took up his chisel and cut shining curls without reply.
I grew impatient of this parley. He knew something, and it must out.
“Look at me, George Padiham!” I said. “Stop your lathe a minute, and charge me for the time a hundred times over! I know the hand that painted these pictures. My portrait and my friend’s, and my horse’s portrait, are here on your wall. Only one person in the world can have painted them, Ellen Clitheroe. Here are her initials in the corner. You know where she is. I wish to see her. I must see her, at once, now!”
“Keep cool, young man! This is my shop. I’m master here. I’ve put bigger men than you out of this door before. What’s all this must and shall about? What’s your name?”
“Richard Wade.”
Padiham left his lathe, came toward me, surveyed me earnestly again, and then took down the drawing wherein I appeared. He compared the man standing before him with his counterfeit presentment. There could be no mistaking me. I had the honor to resemble myself, as the artist had remembered me.
“You’re the man,” said Padiham. “I’ve heard of you. I wasn’t looking sharp not to have known you when you first came in and stood there by the door waiting for me to speak first. Richard Wade, give me your hand! I suppose if I am the best mechanic in England, called so on good authority, you wont mind striking palms with me.”