On the desk he saw standing a leather-framed photograph which seemed familiar.  He crossed and picked it up.  Indeed it was familiar!  It was a photograph of Hunt:  of Hunt, not in the shabby, shapeless garments he wore down at the Duchess’s, but Hunt accoutered as might be a man accustomed to such a room as this—­though in this picture there was the same strong chin, the same belligerent good-natured eyes.

Now how and where did that impecunious, rough-neck painter fit into—­

But the dazed question Larry was asking was interrupted by a voice from the door—­the thick voice of a man: 

“Who the hell ‘r’ you?”

Larry whirled about.  In the doorway stood a tall, bellicose young gentleman of perhaps twenty-four or five, in evening dress, flushed of face, holding unsteadily to the door-jamb.

“I beg your pardon,” said Larry.

“‘N’ what the hell you doin’ here?” continued the belligerent young gentleman.

“I’d be obliged to you if you could tell me,” said Larry.

“Tryin’ to stall, ‘r’ you,” declared the young gentleman with a scowling profundity.  “No go.  Got to come out your corner ‘n’ fight.  ‘N’ I’m goin’ lick you.”

The young man crossed unsteadily to Larry and took a fighting pose.

“Put ’em up!” he ordered.

This was certainly a night of strange adventure, thought Larry.  His wild escape—­his coming to this unknown place—­and now this befuddled young fellow intent upon battle with him.

“Let’s fight to-morrow,” Larry suggested soothingly.

“Put ’em up!” ordered the other.  “If you don’t know what you’re doin’ here, I’ll show you what you’re doin’ here!”

But he was not to show Larry, for while he was uttering his last words, trying to steady himself in a crouch for the delivery of a blow, a voice sounded sharply from the doorway—­a woman’s voice: 

“Dick!”

The young man slowly turned.  But Larry had seen her first.  He had no chance to take her in, that first moment, beyond noting that she was slender and young and exquisitely gowned, for she swept straight across to them.

“Dick, you’re drunk again!” she exclaimed.

“Wrong, sis,” he corrected in an injured tone.  “It’s same drunk.”

“Dick, you go to bed!”

“Now, sis—­”

“You go to bed!”

The young man wavered before her commanding gaze.  “Jus’s you say—­ jus’s you say,” he mumbled, and went unsteadily toward the door.

The young woman watched him out, and then turned her troubled face back to Larry.  “I’m sorry Dick behaved to you as he did.”

And then before Larry could make answer, her clouded look was gone.  “So you’re here at last, Mr. Brainard.”  She held her hand out, smiling a smile that by some magic seemed to envelop him within an immediate friendship.

“I’m Miss Sherwood.”  He noted that the slender, tapering hand had almost a man’s strength of grip.  “You needn’t tell me anything about yourself,” she added, “for I already know a lot—­all I need to know:  about you—­and about Maggie Carlisle.  You see an hour ago a messenger brought me a long letter he’d written about you.”  And she nodded to the photograph Larry was still holding.