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Updated: June 25, 2025
She expected to hear the front door of it close immediately behind her. But instead she heard Mrs. Birchington's high soprano voice saying: "Oh, how d'you do? Glad to meet you again!" Quickly she opened the second door on the left and stepped into Arabian's drawing-room. Why had he been so slow in shutting the front door? She must have been seen.
She turned and went up the staircase to the big studio. On an easel nearly in the middle of the room, and not very far from the portrait of the judge, there was a sketch of Nicolas Arabian's head, neck and shoulders. No collar or clothes were shown.
Already he was at work on another sitter, a dancer in the Russian ballet, talented, decadent, impertinent, and, so Garstin believed, marked out for early death in a madhouse altogether quite an interesting study. But now, looking at Arabian's portrait, Garstin thought: "Probably the man himself. I knew he would come back, and we should have a battle. Now for it!"
But just at this moment her intention was changed, and her subsequent action was determined in her by a trifling event, one of those events which teach the world to believe in Fate. A door, the door of Mrs. Birchington's flat, clicked behind her. Someone was coming out. Instantly, driven by the thought "I mustn't be seen!" Miss Van Tuyn stepped into Arabian's flat.
If he had written he would probably had congratulated her on coming into a fortune. Arabian's sympathy had already been expressed. Naturally, therefore, he had not written to her. But he had made no sign in all these days, had not left a card, had not attempted to see her. Day after day she had wondered whether he would do something, give some evidence of life, of intention. Nothing!
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