His plan was very simple.  Sometimes a messenger-boy brought a note to her studio.  And Blizzard had observed that Barbara’s invariable habit with notes was first to read them, and then to burn them.  She never tore them into pieces and threw them into the fireplace.  She struck a match, lighted them at one corner, and saw to it that they were entirely consumed.  When Barbara had finished with a note, or a circular, or a letter, Sherlock Holmes himself could not have recovered the contents or the name of the sender.  Banking on this habit, Blizzard wrote Barbara a note and sent it to her father’s house by a man he could trust.  She received the note at six o’clock, while she was resting prior to dressing and dining out.  It read as follows: 

     81 Marrow Lane.

     DEAR MISS FERRIS: 

My affairs don’t seem to be prospering here, so I am going away.  I am sorry the Bust isn’t finished.  You will be disappointed.  I am leaving at 8 o’clock for the West.  I have enjoyed sitting for you.  I wish you all the success and happiness you deserve.

     Very truly yours,

     BLIZZARD.

Her mind working very rapidly, Barbara rose at once, and quite unconsciously, so strong was habit in her, struck a match, set the beggar’s note on fire, threw it into the fireplace, and watched it burn to ashes.  On the way to the fireplace she pressed a button to summon her maid.  When this one came, Barbara, already out of her dressing-gown, spoke imperatively: 

“I am going out.  I want a taxi called at once.  Then come back and help me dress.”

But when the maid returned there was little for her to do.  Barbara was in a hurry.

She found a taxi waiting at the door.  She glanced at the driver—­he was not one of those who usually drove her.

“Do you know where Marrow Lane is?”

“Is it near the Brooklyn Bridge, miss?”

“I think so.  Marrow Lane, No. 81.  You can make inquiries.  Hurry.”

The strange driver drove skilfully and swiftly down the avenue.  Two thoughts occupied him:  the beauty of his fare, and the docility with which she came to the master’s hand when he called.

In Barbara’s mind there was but one thought:  not that she was going to visit a disreputable man in a disreputable part of the city, but that she was going to keep that man in the city and finish her bust of him, or know the reason why.  Fame was in her grasp.  She felt astonishingly sure of that.  She was not going to let it escape for a mere matter of convention.  It had been her first idea to send Blizzard a note by messenger.  But she had more confidence in her personal powers of persuasion.  If her model needed money or was in some scrape that could be righted by money and influence, she believed that she could keep him in New York.

It was not yet dark, but all the city lamps were lighted, and the East Side had that atmosphere of care-free gaiety habitual to it after business hours when the weather is rainless and warm.  The taxicab moved slowly, because the children had overflowed the sidewalks and played games which kept them in blissful danger of their lives.  Twice the taxi stopped.  Instantly a crowd gathered about it, and Barbara became an embarrassed but amused centre of criticism and admiration.