A Crime on Canvas by Fred M. White — Read

LAWRENCE passed his hand across his forehead as if he were trying to wipe out this horrible nightmare. The more he thought over it the more gruesome did it become, and it was none the less terrible because of the extraordinary comedy element which the presence of the drunken man had imported into the drama. Lawrence tried to brace himself up to go boldly to the nearest policeman and take him at once to the studio. And yet as he stood there trying to force himself to this line of action he knew perfectly well that he could not do it. He knew that he durst not face the inquiry. What little nerve and courage he had left broke down suddenly, and he turned and fled from the door of the studio as if some power of evil were behind him. Down the deserted garden he went rapidly, and so into the square. Here he forced himself to proceed more slowly, lest by his haste he might attract the attention of some suspicious policeman. As a matter of fact, he did not meet a soul till he was well past Fitzroy Square. His heart was beating less painfully, and he was almost himself again by the time he reached Watney's rooms in the Temple. He heard Big Ben strike the hour of one as he toiled wearily up the stairs. Watney pushed aside the article he was writing. He gave Lawrence a rapid glance, then motioned him to take a chair.

"You will never make a detective," he said. "You have the most tell-tale face of any man I ever saw. You come in here telling me as plainly as possible, and that without uttering a single word, that something out of the common has taken place. Why, man alive, you are a walking tragedy.