“Blast!” she repeated, and took the unlit cigarette from her lips.

“Match?” said Alleyn.

She started, lost her balance, and sat down abruptly. “How long have you been there?” she demanded ungraciously.

“Only just come. I–I haven’t been spying. May I give you a match?”

“Oh — thanks. Chuck up the box, would you?” She lit her cigarette, eyeing him over the top of her long thin hands, and then turned to look again at her work.

“It is exceedingly good, isn’t it?” said Alleyn.

She hunched up one shoulder as if his voice was a piercing draught in her ear, muttered something, and crawled back to her work. She picked up her palette and began mixing a streak of colour with her knife.

“You’re not going to do anything more to it?” said Alleyn involuntarily.

She turned her head and stared at him.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s perfect — you’ll hurt it. I say, please forgive me. Frightful impertinence. I do apologise.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she said impatiently, and screwed up her eyes to peer at the canvas.

“I merely thought—” began Alleyn.

“I had an idea,” said the painter, “that if I worked up here on this hideously uncomfortable perch, I might possibly have the place to myself for a bit.”

“You shall,” said Alleyn, and bowed to her profile. He tried to remember if he had ever before been quite so pointedly snubbed by a total stranger. Only, he reflected, by persons he was obliged to interview in the excution of his duties as an officer of Scotland Yard. On those occasions he persisted. On this an apologetic exit seemed to be clearly indicated. He walked to the top of the companion-way, and then paused.

“But if you do anything more, you’ll be a criminal. The thing’s perfect. Even I can see that, and I— ”