This masterly suggestion seemed to Rainham both plausible and practical, and he proceeded to unfold the whole story of his first meeting with Kitty.  When he reached the part of his narrative which brought out the girl’s explanation that she was seeking to speak with a Mr. Crichton, Lightmark looked at him again covertly, with the same threatening light in his glance.  Then, apparently reassured, he resigned himself again to listen, with a cigarette unlighted between his fingers.

“You say Oswyn heard the whole story?” he asked, when Rainham had finished.  “Did the girl seem to know him?  Or did he seem to have heard of this Crichton before?”

“No,” said Rainham reflectively; “the girl didn’t know Oswyn, though, on the other hand, he seemed certain that he had seen her face somewhere—­probably in that study of yours, by the way; and he appeared to think that I ought to have heard of Crichton—­Cyril Crichton.  He told me that the man wrote clever, scurrilous articles on art and the drama for the Outcry.  But I don’t read English papers much.  You see, our difficulty is that Cyril Crichton is obviously a nom de plume, and no one—­not even the people at the Outcry office—­know, or will say, who the man is; Kitty has tried.  I suppose the editor knows all right, but he is discreet.”

“Ah!” cried Lightmark.  “Now I remember something about her.  Have you got your hat?  Let’s get into a hansom and go and dine—­I’m positively starving.  I’ll stand you a dinner at the Cavour—­standing you a dinner will be such a new sensation; and new sensations are the only things worth living for.  I will tell you about Kitty in the cab.  What a beneficent old beggar you are!”

As they drove rapidly eastward along the High Street of Old Kensington, where the pale orange of the lamplight was just beginning to tell in the dusk, Lightmark explained how, some two years ago or more, he had been talking to a stranger in a railway carriage, and lamenting the difficulty of finding really pretty girls who would act as models; how the stranger had told him that he knew of such a one—­a dressmaker’s apprentice, or something of that sort, who found the work and hours too hard; and how, finally, Kitty had called at his studio—­the old one in Bloomsbury—­and had sat to him, perhaps half a dozen times, before vanishing from his knowledge.  This account had been freely interspersed with exclamations on the beauty of the evening light in the Park, and the subtle charm of the hour after sunset, more exquisite in the clear atmosphere of Paris, but still sufficiently lovely even in London, and acknowledged by both of them to be one of the few compensations accorded to the dwellers in the much-abused Metropolis.

“I’m sorry,” said Rainham penitently; “I had a stupid sort of idea that you were mixed up in the business somehow.  I thought so even before I saw the sketch, because I couldn’t understand whom else she could have been looking for at the dock.  It’s very mysterious.”