FROM THE LIFE
"Bradford!"
"On an order that Harris got me."
"Bradford!" Wickson turned to enjoy the joke with Collins, but the detective had already gone—inconspicuously—and the door had closed behind him.
9
Arnett sat down at once, on his shoulder-blades, in the loose-jointed attitude of a tall man whose work kept him on his feet. He felt in his pocket for his inevitable pipe and hooked it into the corner of his mouth. "I sold him my 'Nymph,' too," he said.
He was as unconsciously individual in his appearance as the detective had been consciously indeterminate—a lank, black-haired, strong-handed man in clothes that showed the dust and plaster of his sculptor studio in spite of brushing. His eyes were wrinkled from a puckered scrutiny; he watched Wickson (and took no note of his background) with a professional interest in the human spirit as it expressed itself in the flesh. He had not seen Wickson for months. Their careers had separated them.
"A bust of Bradford!" Wickson laughed. "That's great! Do you ever do tombstones?"
Arnett sucked his cold pipe humorously. "Are you going to bury some one?"
"No. They're going to bury me."
"What for?"
[ 324 ]
