that you are somehow right. What do you wish done?"
"Get Mulcahy—or Hoddeston—to clear out all Oakey's canvases. Leave only a couple of your own that you don't particularly care about, so as not to stir Silva's suspicions overly. He'll imagine you're exhibiting. Then have Hoddeston step in and tell Silva what happened to the canvases in the studio, and ask him to have his moved out of harm's way. That will appear a kindly impulse on your part, and he will reply that he'll send for his canvas in a couple of days. He'll figure on polishing you off by then," finished Funk callously.
"Agreeable thought, that," sighed the older painter.
"Now, you're going to lend me your roadster. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon at the latest. Be sure Silva is given to understand that tomorrow night you'll be sleeping in the studio. Under no circumstances, however, venture in there tonight," Funk warned gravely. "Tonight Silva, or whatever wakens in the studio under the stimulus of his evil purpose, may have free play. But tomorrow night—ah, tomorrow night I shall be there, not you."
"I won't permit your getting into a nasty situation, Funk. This isn't your affair, after all. Harry was my protegé. It's up to me."
"Are you prepared to give effective battle to a painted demon, Barclay?" Funk's laugh was incredulous. "Can you, through that painted thing, silence for ever the intangible, distant malefactor?"
"You can do such things?" said Barclay's hushed murmur.
"I shall know how to, before I return tomorrow afternoon."
"But how?"
"I'm going to someone who knows. I shall demand the secret. She will yield it, I am certain. I'm going to see Gwen Carradorne."
"Where have I heard that name?" puzzled Barclay.
"Possibly in connection with her published brochures. Her Reality of the Abstract is fairly well known; it's discussed everywhere."
"Quite likely," sighed Barclay. "I seem to remember it vaguely."
"Now," pursued Funk briskly, "how about your car?"
It was dusk when Funk returned on the following day. The seriousness and abstraction that wove a cloak about him struck Barclay's curious inquiries into silence. A certain high air about the younger artist forbade imperiously any break upon that lofty mood. Funk's first query was, Had Silva been duly informed of the occupation of the studio that night?
"He knows. He told Hoddeston that he would call for his unappreciated masterpiece in a couple of days." The words were significantly emphasized.
"I rather fancied he'd say that. He knows you'll be there tonight?"
"Hoddeston told him, if there were any further trouble, I'd sleep there from tonight on, to protect his painting."
"Excellent!" Funk rubbed his hands together and blew a cloud of thick smoke from the cigarette in one corner of his mouth. "And was there any?"
"Yes. Last night the two canvases I'd left were demolished."
"Good! He'll be expecting you to sleep there tonight. Let's have supper. Then I'll run into town and fetch Miss Carradorne. She insists upon coming out; the time was too brief to prepare me to handle the situation single-handed."
"That's extraordinarily kind of her, Funk. But if she is to be at the studio tonight, why not I?" Barclay insisted.
