“Well,” I laughed, “I should think you’d have thought of food before varnish.”
“True, I have not been eating very heartily. Some carrots and raw cabbage from the kitchen garden was all I could obtain. The darkness rather hindered me.”
“But I heard nothing of this. Who let you out?”
“Let me out? My dear sir, I go out when I choose, by the window!”
“But you couldn’t have climbed down the wall.”
“Mr. Bannerlee, we seldom know our latent powers. What I set myself to do, I do. It is a great deal easier than you suppose when the windows have cornices and the ivy is reasonably firm.”
“But climbing back?”
“You have observed the ladder, of course. For the present, I find it obviates much of the difficulty. Later—” His voice trailed out, and he changed the subject with a renewed invitation to enter. “I am glad it is you who are the first to see my work. I think you will know how to evaluate it.”
Perhaps I was not prudent, but I was bitterly curious to see what was the product Maryvale had taken extraordinary measures to create. I stepped inside, noted the broad, slant-shouldered room to be in order, saw lying across a chair the thin sword, a mere rapier, with which the man had threatened to make a ghost of any who interrupted him. A stout walking-stick would have smashed the blade to splinters in a twinkling. The bed had not been slept in, or on. The only litter in the room was near the casement, where easel and canvas stood and rags and brushes were scattered on the floor.
“The pigments are not dry yet, of course,” said Maryvale. “Still, the work is done.”