Free The Studio Crime by Ianthe Jerrold

haven’t found a single personal letter of any kind among all this stuff. Files and files of receipts and bills and press-cuttings, all very orderly. But not a line in the way of a private letter. Plenty of cards for picture-shows and catalogues of exhibitions, but nothing that really throws much light on the dead man’s affairs.”
    â€œThere’s a good deal to throw light on the dead man’s character,” observed John, “which is the next best thing. This book of press-cuttings, for instance, so beautifully bound in morocco. He was a vain man.”
    â€œDash it, John,” said Newtree, looking a little pained. “You can’t call a man vain just because he keeps press-cuttings about himself. Lots of people do. I do it myself, in fact.”
    John smiled.
    â€œBut just have a look through these press-cuttings, Laurence, and you’ll see what I mean. What’s the first thing that strikes you about them?”
    â€œThat there aren’t very many,” said Laurence promptly. 
    â€œAnd the second?”
    â€œThat they’re mostly from provincial papers, and all appreciative—gushing would be a better word.”
    â€œYet Frew’s book on Persia had a good many reviews from London papers, and was not at all well received on the whole. It’s obvious that he discarded all the more unsympathetic criticisms and kept only those which pleased his vanity. In other words, that he was a vain man.”
    â€œAnd much good may that conclusion do you, Mr. Christmas,” said Hembrow with a smile, as he whipped open a secret drawer and took from it a cheque-book and several small piles of used cheques neatly banded with india-rubber.
    John returned his friend’s smile and went on blandly to Newtree:
    â€œIn fact, I should say that our late friend was a pretty considerable poseur. He posed as a writer, but he did not write his own books. He posed as a painter, but whether he could paint or not you know better than I.”
    â€œWell,” said Laurence slowly, “he had a good feeling for colour, of course—but—”
    â€œExactly. He posed as a connoisseur, but—” John looked slowly around the richly-hung and decorated room. “Doesn’t it strike you that there’s something rather curious about this collection?”
    â€œWell,” said Laurence again, “some of the things are very beautiful, and some are obviously valuable, but of course one can see that they’re not very well arranged. In fact, they’re in an awful muddle.”
    â€œJust so. They suggest an ignorant indiscriminate collector rather than a connoisseur. They’re not only badly arranged, but some of them are trash. Those cast, and badly-cast, bronze altar candlesticks, for instance, which have certainly never been near an altar. There’s a whole library of books on art in this bookcase, but” and John rapidly took out three or four volumes and glanced through them, “most of the books are uncut. What do you make of that, Laurence?”
    â€œI suppose, that he hadn’t had time to read them.”
    â€œA man may buy a few books that he hasn’t time to read,” said John, continuing to take volumes from the shelves, open them, run through the pages with his thumb and put them back, “but he doesn’t buy hundreds and not have time to read one. Inclination was lacking, I think, rather than time.”
    â€œI don’t see why anybody should buy all these book—jolly expensive, some of them—if he didn’t intend to read them,” said Laurence, looking with rather an envious eye at the well-stocked shelves.
    â€œOh, well!” said John lightly, closing the glass doors and brushing the dust from his fingers. “They look nice in the shelves, don’t they?” He stood back with his head on one side and contemplated the rich and attractive array. “And remember, Laurence, that