Philip found at length a letter signed:  your loving brother, Albert. it was two or three weeks old, dated from some road in Surbiton, and refused a loan of five pounds.  The writer had his wife and family to think of, he didn’t feel justified in lending money, and his advice was that Fanny should come back to London and try to get a situation.  Philip telegraphed to Albert Price, and in a little while an answer came: 

“Deeply distressed.  Very awkward to leave my business.  Is presence essential.  Price.”

Philip wired a succinct affirmative, and next morning a stranger presented himself at the studio.

“My name’s Price,” he said, when Philip opened the door.

He was a commonish man in black with a band round his bowler hat; he had something of Fanny’s clumsy look; he wore a stubbly moustache, and had a cockney accent.  Philip asked him to come in.  He cast sidelong glances round the studio while Philip gave him details of the accident and told him what he had done.

“I needn’t see her, need I?” asked Albert Price.  “My nerves aren’t very strong, and it takes very little to upset me.”

He began to talk freely.  He was a rubber-merchant, and he had a wife and three children.  Fanny was a governess, and he couldn’t make out why she hadn’t stuck to that instead of coming to Paris.

“Me and Mrs. Price told her Paris was no place for a girl.  And there’s no money in art—­never ’as been.”

It was plain enough that he had not been on friendly terms with his sister, and he resented her suicide as a last injury that she had done him.  He did not like the idea that she had been forced to it by poverty; that seemed to reflect on the family.  The idea struck him that possibly there was a more respectable reason for her act.

“I suppose she ’adn’t any trouble with a man, ’ad she?  You know what I mean, Paris and all that.  She might ’ave done it so as not to disgrace herself.”

Philip felt himself reddening and cursed his weakness.  Price’s keen little eyes seemed to suspect him of an intrigue.

“I believe your sister to have been perfectly virtuous,” he answered acidly.  “She killed herself because she was starving.”

“Well, it’s very ’ard on her family, Mr. Carey.  She only ’ad to write to me.  I wouldn’t have let my sister want.”

Philip had found the brother’s address only by reading the letter in which he refused a loan; but he shrugged his shoulders:  there was no use in recrimination.  He hated the little man and wanted to have done with him as soon as possible.  Albert Price also wished to get through the necessary business quickly so that he could get back to London.  They went to the tiny room in which poor Fanny had lived.  Albert Price looked at the pictures and the furniture.

“I don’t pretend to know much about art,” he said.  “I suppose these pictures would fetch something, would they?”