On arriving in New York a man of more complex mental processes would have tried first of all to get the precious information which he carried into the possession of Lichtenstein, but Wilmot felt that he could have no peace until he had seen Blizzard, spoken his mind, and washed his hands of him.  That he would then put his own life in danger did not occur to him, and would not have altered his determination if it had.

The lure of Barbara, however, drew him aside from the direct path to Marrow Lane.  He had resolved not to see her for a year, but thought it right to break through that resolution in order to tell her at first hand of Harry West’s death.  But the janitor told him that Miss Ferris had not been coming to the studio for a long time.  She had had no word from her.  She had left one day by the back stair without her hat; a little later the legless beggar had left by the front door.  His expression had been enough to frighten a body to death.  Yes, the boy had come one day in a taxicab and gone away with her things.  He had refused to answer any questions.  She had never thought very highly of him as a boy.  No, the bust upon which Miss Ferris had been at work had not been removed.  No, the gentleman could not see it.  Orders were orders....  Yes, the gentleman could see it.  After all there had been no orders recently.

She led the way upstairs, her hand tightly closed upon a greenback.  She unlocked and flung open the door of Barbara’s studio, remarking that nothing in it had been touched since that lady’s departure.

Wilmot noticed much dust, an overturned chair, and then his eyes rose to the bust of Blizzard as to a living presence.  The expression of that bestial fallen face made his spine feel as if ants were crawling on it.  And he turned away with disgust and hatred.  “Oh, Barbs, Barbs, what a wrong-headed little darling you are!” But he added:  “And Lord, what a talent she’s got!”

Blizzard was not in his office.  But he was upstairs and expected Mr. Allen.

A girl who had been wonderfully pretty told Wilmot these things.  She would have been wonderfully pretty still, for she was very young, if she had not looked so tired, so unhappy, so broken-spirited.  Did Rose still love the man for whom she had betrayed her friends and her own better nature?  Yes.  But she had learned that she was no more to him than a plaything—­to caress or to break as seemed most amusing to him.  At first until the novelty of her had worn off he had shown her a sufficiency of brusque tenderness.  Latterly as his great plans matured he had been all brute.  Sometimes he made her feel that he was so surfeited with her love that he considered killing her.

Sideways, with eyes haunted by shame and tragedy, she gave the handsome bearded youth a look of compassion.  “In here, please,” she said.

The door closed behind Wilmot with an ominous click, and he found himself face to face with the legless beggar.  In this one’s eyes, seen above a table littered with pamphlets and writings, was none of that mock affability to which he had formerly treated Wilmot Allen.  He looked angry, dangerous, poisonous.  And he broke into a harsh, ugly laugh.