before his big face.

"H'm, shoot an arrow into that old man's heart like this? But was
there anything done?"

"A terra-cotta bust, I believe. Good? I don't know. I rather
think it's in this house. A lot of things have been sent down from
Paris here, when she gave up the Pavilion. When she goes up now
she stays in hotels, you know. I imagine it is locked up in one of
these things," went on Blunt, pointing towards the end of the
studio where amongst the monumental presses of dark oak lurked the
shy dummy which had worn the stiff robes of the Byzantine Empress
and the amazing hat of the "Girl," rakishly. I wondered whether
that dummy had travelled from Paris, too, and whether with or
without its head. Perhaps that head had been left behind, having
rolled into a corner of some empty room in the dismantled Pavilion.
I represented it to myself very lonely, without features, like a
turnip, with a mere peg sticking out where the neck should have
been. And Mr. Blunt was talking on.

"There are treasures behind these locked doors, brocades, old
jewels, unframed pictures, bronzes, chinoiseries, Japoneries."

He growled as much as a man of his accomplished manner and voice
could growl. "I don't suppose she gave away all that to her
sister, but I shouldn't be surprised if that timid rustic didn't
lay a claim to the lot for the love of God and the good of the
Church. . .

"And held on with her teeth, too," he added graphically.