Eight
A parlourmaid opened the door of the opposite wing to us. She lookedscared but slightly contemptuous when she saw Taverner.
“You want to see the mistress?”
“Yes, please.”
She showed us into a big drawing room and went out.
Its proportions were the same as the drawing room on the ground floorbelow. There were coloured cretonnes, very gay in colour, and striped silkcurtains. Over the mantelpiece was a portrait that held my gaze riveted—not only because of the master hand that had painted it, but also becauseof the arresting face of the subject.
It was the portrait of a little old man with dark, piercing eyes. He wore ablack velvet² skull³ cap and his head was sunk down in his shoulders, butthe vitality⁴ and power of the man radiated forth⁵ from the canvas. Thetwinkling eyes seemed to hold mine.
“That’s him,” said Chief-Inspector⁶ Taverner ungrammatically. “Paintedby Augustus John. Got a personality, hasn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said, and felt the monosyllable was inadequate⁷.
I understood now just what Edith de Haviland had meant when she saidthe house seemed so empty ithout him. This was the Original CrookedLittle Man who had built the Crooked⁸ Little House—and without him theCrooked Little House had lost its meaning.
“That’s his first wife over there, painted by Sargent,” said Taverner.
I examined the picture on the wall between the windows. It had a cer-tain cruelty like many of Sargent’s portraits. The length of the face was ex-aggerated, I thought—so was the faint suggestion of horsiness—the indis-putable correctness. It was a portrait of a typical English Lady—in Country(not Smart) Society. Handsome, but rather lifeless. A most unlikely wifefor the grinning, powerful little despot over the mantelpiece.
The door opened and

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