Sylvester shut his volume sharply, glanced up at the other with suppressed irritation.

“That is not a matter I can discuss with you,” he said at last.

“I simply intend you to read,” went on Oswyn calmly, “a letter which your brother-in-law wrote to my friend, Philip Rainham, a few weeks before his death.”

Charles rose from his chair quickly, avoiding the other’s face.

“I regret that I can’t assist you,” he said haughtily; “I have no interest whatever in the affairs of the late Mr. Rainham, and I must decline to read your letter.”

He glanced significantly at the door, not suppressing a slight yawn; it was incredible how this repulsive little artist, with his indelicate propositions, bored him.

But Oswyn ignored his gesture; simply laid the missive in question on the table; then he glanced casually at his watch.

“I can’t compel you to read this letter,” he said in the same studiously calm voice.  “I warn you that your honour is gravely interested in its contents, and I will give you five minutes in which to decide.  If you still persist in your determination, I have no course left but to send copies of it to some of Rainham’s most intimate friends, and to your sister, Mrs. Lightmark.”

He had his watch in one hand, but his gaze, curiously ironical, followed the direction of Charles’s irresolute eyes, and the five minutes had not elapsed before he realized—­and a touch of triumph mingled with his immense contempt of the man and his pompous unreality—­that Charles’s resolution had succumbed.

He stretched out his hand for the letter, unfolded it deliberately, and read it once, twice, three times, with a judicial slowness, which the other, who was now curiously moved, found exasperating.

When at last he looked up at Oswyn he shaded his eyes with one hand, but his face remained for the rest imperturbable and expressionless.  The painter saw that his discretion was larger than he had imagined.

If the reading had been disagreeably illuminative—­and Oswyn believed that under his surface composure he concealed, at least, a terrible wound to his pride—­he was not going to allow this impression to appear.

“I might suggest that this document is a forgery,” he said after a moment.

Oswyn indulged in a little, harsh laugh, shrugging his shoulders.

“That would be too fatuous, Mr. Sylvester.”

“I might suggest it,” went on Charles slowly.  “Perhaps, then, you will be surprised when I tell you that I believe it to be genuine.  May I ask, Mr. Oswyn, why you move in this matter?”

“As Rainham’s friend,” said Oswyn quickly, “I intend to expose the miserable calumny which clouded his last days.”

“A public scandal would be greatly to be deplored,” Charles hazarded inconsequently, in the tone of a man who argued with himself.

Oswyn made as if he would have taken up the letter with a gesture of sudden impatience; but Charles intercepted him quickly, and his voice had a grave simplicity in it which arrested the other’s attention.