he had certainly not exaggerated. Elsa found it took her half an hour the following morning to trace it, walking in and out of the closely congested streets of Chelsea, most of them rendered all the more dingy by the merciless light of the summer sun; then at length she found Dell Road and stood considering it doubtfully. It was narrow, cramped, and had all the appearance of a slum. She debated whether or not to forget the whole idea and recalled to mind a number of suspicions she had formed. For instance, Clive Hexley might not really be an artist: his card had only said he was, and that did not mean a thing. He might have some ulterior motive for his offer. Certainly, if he could work in a district like this he must have a mind superbly insulated from external impressions. Yet even as she thought matters over, Elsa found herself walking slowly, studying the facades of the old-style buildings as she moved. There seemed to be a curious mixture of houses and business premises—then presently, on the other side of the road the sign CARDENWORTH STUDIOS caught her eye and she surveyed the building speculatively.
