Page:The Black Camel (IA blackcamel0000earl).djvu/177

Fyfe hesitated. He regretted more than ever the public nature of his meeting with Smith. Then he threw back his head and laughed—a laugh too long delayed, as Charlie noted.

“I certainly have,” the actor admitted. “He called on me almost before I was up.”

“For what purpose?”

“To get money, of course. I imagine he is making the rounds of the people he met last night. He seemed to think that the mere meeting gave him a sort of claim on us all.”

“You are too busy with plural words,” Chan protested. “His claim, I think, was on you alone.” The actor said nothing. ‘You gave him money?” Charlie persisted.

“Why—yes—a few dollars. I was rather sorry for him. He is not a bad painter——” Fyfe stopped suddenly.

“How do you know he is not a bad painter?” Chan was quick to ask.

“Well—he—he left a canvas with me——”

“This canvas?” Charlie stepped down the aisle, and picked up something from a vacant seat. “I noted it as we came back here together,” he explained. “If you do not mind, I will take it to light and examine it.”

“By all means,” the actor agreed.

Charlie walked to the door, and pushing it open, gazed for a moment at the painting. The eyes of that girl, posed against green shrubbery, seemed strangely alive. He came back to Fyfe’s side.

“You are correct,” he remarked, dropping the canvas into one of the chairs. “The man has talent. Pity such a one must resort to—blackmail.”