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By Root 529 0

and of this spoilt child pose. It ought to appeal to him, he supposed, but it didn’t. Aspasia Glen had made a mistake. She had judged him as an elderly dilettante, easily flattered by a pretty woman. But Mr Satterthwaite behind his gallant manner had a shrewd and critical mind. He saw people pretty well as they were, not as they wished to appear to him. He saw before him, not a charming woman pleading for a whim, but a ruthless egoist determined to get her own way for some reason which was obscure to him. And he knew quite certainly that Aspasia Glen was not going to get her own way. He was not going to give up the picture of the Dead Harlequin to her. He sought rapidly in his mind for the best way of circumventing her without overt rudeness.

‘I am sure,’ he said, ‘that everyone gives you your own way as often as they can and is only too delighted to do so.’

‘Then you are really going to let me have the picture?’

Mr Satterthwaite shook his head slowly and regretfully.

‘I am afraid that is impossible. You see’–he paused–‘I bought that picture for a lady. It is a present.’

‘Oh! but surely–’

The telephone on the table rang sharply. With a murmured word of excuse Mr Satterthwaite took up the receiver. A voice spoke to him, a small, cold voice that sounded very far away.

‘Can I speak to Mr Satterthwaite, please?’

‘It is Mr Satterthwaite speaking.’

‘I am Lady Charnley, Alix Charnley. I daresay you don’t remember me Mr Satterthwaite, it is a great many years since we met.’

‘My dear Alix. Of course, I remember you.’

‘There is something I wanted to ask you. I was at the Harchester Galleries at an exhibition of pictures today, there was one called The Dead Harlequin, perhaps you recognized it–it was the Terrace Room at Charnley. I–I want to have that picture. It was sold to you.’ She paused. ‘Mr Satterthwaite, for reasons of my own I want that picture. Will you resell it to me?’

Mr Satterthwaite thought to himself: ‘Why, this is a miracle.’ As he spoke into the receiver he was thankful that Aspasia Glen could only hear one side of the conversation. ‘If you will accept my gift, dear lady, it will make me very happy.’ He heard a sharp exclamation behind him and hurried on. ‘I bought it for you. I did indeed. But listen, my dear Alix, I want to ask you to do me a great favour, if you will.’

‘Of course. Mr Satterthwaite, I am so very grateful.’

He went on. ‘I want you to come round now to my house, at once.’

There was a slight pause and then she answered quietly:

‘I will come at once.’

Mr Satterthwaite put down the receiver and turned to Miss Glen.

She said quickly and angrily:

‘That was the picture you were talking about?’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘the lady to whom I am presenting it is coming round to this house in a few minutes.’

Suddenly Aspasia Glen’s face broke once more into smiles. ‘You will give me a chance of persuading her to turn the picture over to me?’

‘I will give you a chance of persuading her.’

Inwardly he was strangely excited. He was in the midst of a drama that was shaping itself to some foredoomed end. He, the looker-on, was playing a star part. He turned to Miss Glen.

‘Will you come into the other room with me? I should like you to meet some friends of mine.’

He held the door open for her and, crossing the hall, opened the door of the smoking-room.

‘Miss Glen,’ he said, ‘let me introduce you to an old friend of mine, Colonel Monckton. Mr Bristow, the painter of the picture you admire so much.’ Then he started as a third figure rose from the chair which he had left empty beside his own.

‘I think you expected me this evening,’ said Mr Quin. ‘During your absence I introduced myself to your friends. I am so glad I was able to drop in.’

‘My dear friend,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘I–I have been carrying on as well as I am able, but–’ He stopped before the slightly sardonic glance of Mr Quin’s dark eyes. ‘Let me introduce you. Mr Harley Quin, Miss Aspasia Glen.’

Was it fancy–or did she shrink back slightly. A curious expression flitted over her face. Suddenly Bristow broke in boisterously.