There was, of course, a match-holder in the library. I looked into the room of weapons: although the light shone beyond the library door ajar, no sound came from inside. I thought the risk worth taking, and stepped in, rope and all, hoping (in my grimed condition) not to discover anyone.
The quiet of the room was deceptive. There were a lot of people there. Belvoir and Mrs. Belvoir were close together at the table with its red velvet cover, reading from the same book, which could not have been very fine sport for him, since he required about one-half the time she did to peruse a page. In the embrasure of the corner tower, Lord Ludlow was sitting with his back to the window and his volume held before his face so that no light from the chandelier might possibly fall upon what he read. This position he maintained the entire time I was in the room. In a secluded nook Lib and Bob were standing before a glass-covered case full of dark and mysterious tomes.
Belvoir looked up, while his wife began the page he had finished. “Hello! Where have you been?”
“On top of the Forest—all over it: a breather. What’s happened?”
“Man killed by the falling hill the other evening.”
“Yes; I’ve seen him. I met Salt going up there. But down here—what about Maryvale?”
“Quiet all day. He’s working hard—too busy to eat—fact. (Finished it yet, my dear? Don’t hurry.)”
“Is he really painting?”
Belvoir shrugged. “Wish I knew. This morning, through the door, he said he was, and warned us against interfering with him. Aire’s standing by at present.”
“But have you thought—the materials. Oil pigments need to be prepared. You can’t pick them up on instant’s notice after a number of years, or decades, and find them suitable.”