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“Good Lord!” said Dan again.

He withdrew his head from the window, descended from the chair, and came out of his studio into the courtyard. The sunshine, which was brilliant, shone on his untidy red hair. He looked like a slightly worried giant.

The Chesterfield was reposing momentarily on the stones of the courtyard. The men were wiping their foreheads. The day was warm.

“Studio let?” demanded Dan.

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “Bringing in the furniture, sir. Nice day, but warm.”

“Who’s taken the studio?” demanded Dan.

“Can’t remember the lady’s name at the moment, sir. Elderly lady with grey hair. Saw her when——”

“An old lady!” interrupted Dan. His voice held at least three notes of disgust.

“Yes, sir, she——”

But Dan had vanished up the garden path of studio number six, had banged on the door, and entered without waiting for permission.

A man in his shirtsleeves was standing before an easel. A nude model was half sitting, half lying, on the platform.

“I say, Barnabas,” he began. Then he saw the model. “Morning, Tilly. Sorry I interrupted.”