It was the crude, half-finished shape of a recumbent female figure, of large proportions and abominable modelling, stretched out at full length upon a long, low, trestle-supported “sculptor’s staging,” on which also lay Van Nant’s modelling tools and his clay-stained working blouse.  Cleek looked at the huge unnatural thing—­out of drawing, anatomically wrong in many particulars—­and felt like quoting Angelo’s famous remark anent his master Lorenzo’s faun:  “What a pity to have spoilt so much expensive material,” and Van Nant, observing, waved his hand toward it.

“A slumbering nymph,” he explained.  “Only the head and shoulders finished as yet, you see.  I began it the day before, yesterday, but my hand seems somehow to have lost its cunning.  Here are the keys of all the rooms, Mr. Headland.  Carboys’ was the one directly at the head of the stairs, in the front.  Won’t you and Mr. Narkom go up and search without me?  I couldn’t bear to look into the place and see the things that belonged to him and he not there.  It would cut me to the heart if I did.  Or, maybe, you would sooner go alone, and leave Mr. Narkom to search round this room.  We used to make a general sitting-room of it at nights when we were alone together, and some clue may have been dropped.”

“A good suggestion, Mr. Narkom,” commented Cleek, as he took the keys.  “Look round and see what you can find whilst I poke about upstairs.”  Then he walked out of the studio and searching every nook and corner, whilst Van Nant, for the want of something to occupy his mind and his hands, worked on the nymph, and could hear him moving about overhead in quest of possible clues.

For perhaps twenty minutes Cleek was away; then he came down and walked into the room looking the very picture of hopeless bewilderment.

“Mr. Narkom,” he said, “this case stumps me.  I believe there’s magic in it, if you ask me; and as the only way to find magic is with magic, I am going to consult a clairvoyante, and if one of those parties can’t give me a clue, I don’t believe the mystery will ever be solved.  I know of a ripping one, but she is over in Ireland, and as it’s a dickens of a way to go, I shan’t be able to get back before the day after to-morrow at the earliest.  But—­look here, sir, I’ll tell you what!  This is Tuesday evening, isn’t it?  Now if you and Mr. Van Nant will be at Captain Morrison’s house on Thursday evening at seven o’clock, and will wait there until I come, I’ll tell you what that clairvoyante says, and whether there’s any chance of this thing being solved or not.  Is that agreeable, Mr. Van Nant?”

“Quite, Mr. Headland.  I’ll be there promptly.”

“And stop until you hear from me?”

“And stop until I hear from you—­yes.”

“Right you are, sir.  Now then, Mr. Narkom, if you’ll let the chauffeur whisk me over to the station, I’ll get back to London and on to the earliest possible train for Holyhead so as to be on hand for the first Irish packet to-morrow.  And while you’re looking for your hat, sir—­good evening, Mr. Van Nant—­I’ll step outside and tell Lennard to start up.”