‘Certainly. She told me that she stayed with another girl who is in the chorus of a vaudeville show at the Chelsea Theatre. It is called Snappy. Sonia shared this girl’s room. She went to Snappy on Friday evening, and on Saturday she went to a studio party in Putney where she became exceedingly drunk, and was driven home by a young man, not so drunk, to the room of this girl whose name is—tiens!— ah yes —Bobbie is the name of the friend. Bobbie O’Dawne. All this was told me, and for a while I was complacent, and held her hand in the bus. Then after a time I fell asleep.’

‘Did she say anything at all that could possibly be of any help to us?’

‘Ah! Any help? I do not think so. Except one thing, perhaps. She said that I must not be surprised if I learn soon of another engagement.’

‘What engagement was that?’

‘She would not tell me. She became retenue—espiègle —in English, sly-boots. Sonia was very sly-boots on the subject of this engagement. I receive the impression, however, that it would be to Garcia.’

‘I see. She did not talk about Garcia’s movements on Friday?’

‘But I think she did!’ exclaimed Ormerin, after a moment’s consideration. ‘Yes, it is quite true, she did speak of him. It was after I had begun to get sleepy. She said Garcia would start for his promenade through this county on Saturday morning, and return to work in London in a week’s time.’

‘Did she say where his work-room was in London?’

‘On the contrary, she asked me if I could tell her this. She said: “I do not know what his idea is, to make such a mystery of it.” Then she laughed and said: “But that is Garcia—I shall have to put up with it, I suppose.” She spoke with the air of a woman who has certain rights over a man. It may, of course, have been an assumption. One cannot tell. Very often I have noticed that it is when a woman begins to lose her power with a man that she assumes these little postures of the proprietress.’

‘What did you think of Sonia Gluck, M. Ormerin?’

Ormerin’s sharp black eyes flashed in his sallow face and his thin mouth widened.

‘Of Sonia? She was a type, Mr Alleyn. That is all one can say of her. The gamine that so often drifts towards studio doors, and then imperceptibly, naturally, into the protection of some painter. She had beauty, as you have seen. She was very difficult. If she had lived, she would have had little work when her beauty faded. While she was still good for our purpose we endured her temperament, her caprice, for the sake of her lovely body, which we might paint when she was well-behaved.’

‘Had you so much difficulty with her?’