GAIL WYNAND ROSE AND MET HER HALFWAY ACROSS HIS OFFICE. “How do you do, Mrs. Keating,” he said.

“How do you do, Mr. Wynand,” said Dominique.

He moved a chair for her, but when she sat down he did not cross to sit behind his desk, he stood studying her professionally, appraisingly. His manner implied a self-evident necessity, as if his reason were known to her and there could be nothing improper in this behavior.

“You look like a stylized version of your own stylized version,” he said. “As a rule seeing the models of art works tends to make one atheistic. But this time it’s a close one between that sculptor and God.”

“What sculptor?”

“The one who did that statue of you.”

He had felt that there was some story behind that statue and he became certain of it now, by something in her face, a tightening that contradicted, for a second, the trim indifference of her self-control.

“Where and when did you see that statue, Mr. Wynand?”

“In my art gallery, this morning.”

“Where did you get it?”

It was his turn to show perplexity. “But don’t you know that?”

“No.”

“Your friend Ellsworth Toohey sent it to me. As a present.”

“To get this appointment for me?”

“Not through as direct a motivation as I believe you’re thinking. But in substance—yes.”

“He hasn’t told me that.”

“Do you mind my having that statue?”

“Not particularly.”

“I expected you to say that you were delighted.”

“I’m not.”

He sat down, informally, on the outer edge of his desk, his legs stretched out, his ankles crossed. He asked:

“I gather you lost track of that statue and have been trying to find it?”

“For two years.”

“You can’t have it.” He added, watching her: “You might have Stoneridge.”

“I shall change my mind. I’m delighted that Toohey gave it to you.”

He felt a bitter little stab of triumph—and of disappointment, in thinking that he could read her mind and that her mind was obvious, after all. He asked:

“Because it gave you this interview?”

“No. Because you’re the person before last in the world whom I’d like to have that statue. But Toohey is last.”

He lost the triumph; it was not a thing which a woman intent on Stoneridge should have said or thought. He asked:

“You didn’t know that Toohey had it?”

“No.”

“We should get together on our mutual friend, Mr. Ellsworth Toohey. I don’t like being a pawn and I don’t think you do or could ever be made to. There are too many things Mr. Toohey chose not to tell. The name of that sculptor, for instance.”

“He didn’t tell you that?”

“No.”

“Steven Mallory.”

“Mallory? ... Not the one who tried to ...” He laughed aloud.

“What’s the matter?”

“Toohey told me he couldn’t remember the name. That name.”

“Does Mr. Toohey still astonish you?”

“He has, several times, in the last few days. There’s a special kind of subtlety in