CHAPTER XII
"THE THIEF ON THE LEFT"
"Dick!"
Tempest called from his bed-room; the little room behind the little sitting room which Dick had seldom entered. But Dick came to the door now, standing still, with his lips drawn into a peculiar smile.
"Well?" he said, and Tempest turned from the dressing-table.
"Come in, and shut the door, old man," he said. And Dick came in. His chance to explain this matter, convincingly and pleasantly, was for now.
Except for a square of black plaster above the sun-burnt line across his temple, Tempest showed no signs of last night's happenings. His voice was warm and strong, and his eyes smiled.
"You've had a busy day," he said. "But I haven't been idle, either. About half a dozen fellows have come in for moral support of some kind."
"Yes? You will always find plenty who will tie up to you for repairs."
"Except you." Tempest shifted the brushes on the dressing-table slowly. "You've gone your own pernicious way, you old sinner, while—if you'd had the honesty to speak to me, there'd have been no need—for all this."
Even the cynicism ingrained in him could not help Dick just now. He loved Tempest too well.
"I had forgotten that men expected honesty from me," he said. "What is it?"
"Andree has told me," said Tempest quietly. "That was enough. And I saw those paintings of yours if I had needed more proof. I would have wished you hadn't done them. But you probably didn't guess that they would be made public. She's not mine to give up, now. But I want you to know that if she was I could give her up to you,
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