Malmsley eagerly gave an account of his weekend. He had attended the private view, had gone to the Savoy, and to a friend’s flat. They had sat up till three o’clock. He had spent the whole of Saturday with this friend, and with him had gone to a theatre in the evening, and again they had not gone to bed until very late. Alleyn took him through the whole business up to his return on Sunday. Malmsley seemed to be very much shaken.

‘Excellent, so far,’ said Alleyn. ‘We shall, of course, verify your statements. I have looked at your illustrations, Mr Malmsley. They are charming.’

‘You shake my pleasure in them,’ said Malmsley, rallying a little.

‘I particularly liked the picture of the three little men with scythes.’

Malmsley looked sharply at Alleyn but said nothing.

‘Have you ever visited Chantilly?’ asked Alleyn.

‘Never.’

‘Then you have not seen Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry?’

‘Never.’

‘You have seen reproductions of the illustrations, perhaps?’

‘I—I may have.’

Nigel, staring at Malmsley, wondered how he could ever have thought him a pale young man.

‘Do you remember a book The Consolations of a Critic?’

‘I—don’t remember—I—’

‘Do you own a copy of this book?’

‘No—I—I—’

Alleyn picked up the little blue volume from under his chair and laid it on Malmsley’s knee.

‘Isn’t this book your property, Mr Malmsley?’

‘I—I refuse to answer. This is intolerable.’

‘It has your name on the fly-leaf.’

Nigel suddenly felt desperately sorry for Malmsley. He felt as if he himself had done something shameful. He wished ardently that Alleyn would let Malmsley go. Malmsley had embarked on a sort of explanation. Elaborate phrases faltered into lame protestations. The subconscious memory of beautiful things—all art was imitative—to refuse a model was to confess yourself without imagination. On and on he went, and ended in misery.

‘All this,’ said Alleyn, not too unkindly, ‘is quite unnecessary. I am not here to inquire into the ethics of illustrative painting. The rightness or wrongness of what you have done is between yourself, your publisher, and your conscience, if such a thing exists. All I want to know is how this book came into the possession of Sonia Gluck.’

‘I don’t know. She was odiously inquisitive—I must have left it somewhere—I had it in the studio one afternoon when I—when I was alone. Someone came in and I—I put it aside. I am not in the least ashamed. I consider I had a perfect right. There are many dissimilarities.’

‘That is what she was driving at when she asked you, on the morning of the experiment, where you got your ideas?’

‘Yes. I suppose so. Yes.’

‘Did you ask her for the book?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she refused to give it up?’

‘It was abominable. It was not that I objected to anybody knowing.’