“Geisner!  Is he back again?” exclaimed the girl.  Ned felt her hand clutch him nervously.  A sudden repulsion to this Geisner shot through him.  He pulled his arm from her grasp.

They had reached the end of the passage, however, and she did not notice.  Stratton turned the handle and opened the door, held back the half-drawn curtain that hung on the further side and they passed in.  “Here we are,” he cried.  “Geisner says he recollects you, Nellie.”

Ned could have described the room to the details if he had been struck blind that minute.  It was a double room, long and low and not very broad, running the whole width of the house, for there were windows on two sides and French lights on another.  The glazed door opened in the corner of the windowless side.  Opposite were the French lights, the further one swung ajar and showing a lighted verandah beyond from which came a flutter of voices.  Beyond still were dim points of light that he took at first for stars.  Folding doors, now swung right back, divided the long linoleum-floored room into two apartments, a studio and a sitting-room.  The studio in which they stood was littered with things strange to him; an easel, bearing a half-finished drawing; a black-polished cabinet; a table-desk against the window, on it slips of paper thrown carelessly about, the ink-well open, a file full of letters, a handful of cigarettes, a tray of tobacco ash, a bespattered palette, pens, coloured crayons, a medley of things; a revolving office chair with a worn crimson footrug before it; a many-shelved glass case against the blank wall, crammed to overflowing with shells and coral and strange grasses, with specimens of ore, with Chinese carvings, with curious lacquer-work; a large brass-bound portfolio stand; on the painted walls plaster-casts of hands and arms and feet, boxing gloves, fencing foils, a glaring tiger’s head, a group of photographs; in the corner, a suit of antique armour stood sentinel over a heap of dumb-bells and Indian clubs.

In the sitting room beyond the folded doors, a soft coloured rug carpet lay loosely on the floor.  There were easy chairs there and a red lounge that promised softness; a square cloth-covered table; a whatnot in the corner; fancy shelves; a pretty walnut-wood piano, gilt lined, the cover thrown back, laden with music; on the music-stool a woman’s cloak was lying, on the piano a woman’s cap.  A great book-case reached from ceiling to floor, filled with books, its shelves fringed with some scalloped red stuff.  Everywhere were nick-nacks in china, in glass, in terra-cotta, in carved woods, in ivory; photo frames; medallions.  On the walls, bright with striped hangings, were some dainty pictures.  Half concealed by the hangings was another door.  Lying about on the table, here and there on low shelves, were more books.  The ground-glass globes of the gaslights were covered with crimson shades.  There was a subdued blaze of vivid colouring, of rich toned hues, of beautiful things loved and cherished, over all.  Sitting on the edge of the table was the moustached man who smoked the wooden pipe.  And turning round from the book-case, an open book in his hand, was the ugly little man.  Ned felt that this was Geisner.