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you at the studio?’
    â€˜That’s the difficulty. People keep me busy, day and night. I’d like to loaf, as you do. I’d enjoy being detached and inconspicuous but in the beginning I didn’t play it that way. I thought I wanted power, and all I got was responsibility.... Now, the studio.... Let’s see. To-day I’m all tied up. Some relatives, you know. It’ll be refreshing to see that chap Jansen, who wouldn’t give a damn what anybody thought. Imagine him dressing up his place for me, the way relatives do.’
    Evans was passing a bad few moments. ‘Perhaps to-morrow,’ he suggested.
    â€˜That’s it. To-morrow. I’ll drop in before I go to that damned banquet of the Société des Artistes Français . I hate banquets and speeches, especially in French. What can a man say in French that hasn’t been said too many times already? And I don’t even know yet what it is they want of me. They’re getting good prices for their stuff, that gang. No, Evans. It’s the hardworking, obscure young men like Jansen who’ll be talked about when we are gone. Mark my words.’
    Evans was marking them all too well. He looked forward to the morrow with misgivings. ‘About six o’clock?’ he asked.
    â€˜Make it six-thirty. I hate to keep young people waiting.... And, by the way, did you meet that chap who came to see me just before you did? Ambrose Gring, he said his name was, although it doesn’t sound likely. What was he up to, do you think? Said he wrote for Art for Art ’ s Sake and wanted a story. You know as well as I do that stories in that sheet don’t mean a thing. They’re thrown in with the ads. He wanted, in particular, to know if I intended to visit any of the private galleries, if I could tell him of any interesting old masters that might be on sale. The whole thing sounds fishy to me. He wanted to pump me for something. What was it? Who is he?’
    â€˜His name is Ambrose Gring, all right.... At least, that’s the only name he’s used in Montparnasse. No one has seen his passport. He went to Yale, won a poetry prize, claims he was with Kolchak in Russia....’
    â€˜If I’d known that, I’d have thrown him out bodily,’ the philanthropist said.
    â€˜He did once write for Art for Art ’ s Sake , a small job with almost no pay. He seems to know all the dealers. ...’
    â€˜What seemed stranger than anything else, he asked me about oil. Was it a good, safe investment? Were there really millions in it?’
    â€˜What did you tell him about oil?’ asked Evans, amused.
    â€˜I told him that oil belonged to the public, that natural resources were the property of all and that anyone who took private profit from them was a robber and a scoundrel. That’s what I said. And it seemed to disturb him, almost to frighten him. He thought the public was going to seize the oil before the day was over, it seemed to me. Anyway, I had nothing to tell him about my plans. I’m going to keep away from galleries. I’m not going to open any mail. I shall not put in an appearance at any studios except that of your beer-drinking friend.’
    â€˜I must leave you,’ Evans said. ‘I’ve taken too much of your time.’
    â€˜Not at all. Come any day you like. And thanks again for that Greco incident. I should have stubbed my toe, and been the butt of the trade if it hadn’t been for you.’
    â€˜To-morrow, then, at half-past six,’ said Evans, and with growing qualms walked down the long corridor, descended to the lobby and got into Lvov’s taxi at the kerb.
    Hjalmar Jansen’s studio was in the loft of a dingy building in the rue Montparnasse, overlooking the narrow street and the roofs and chimney-pots of the lower buildings across the way. From the rear window might be seen a small gravelled playground which, at hours of recess, swarmed with