Following the lead set by "H. C." in the Planet ("H. C." was
Helen Cumberly's nom de plume) and by Crocket in the Daily Monitor, the
London Press had taken Olaf van Noord to its bosom; and his exhibition
in the Little Gallery was an established financial success, whilst "Our
Lady of the Poppies" (which had, of course, been rejected by the Royal
Academy) promised to be the picture of the year.
Mentally, Denise Ryland was again surveying that remarkable composition;
mentally she was surveying Olaf van Noord's model, also. Into the scheme
slowly forming in her brain, the yellow-wrapped cigarette containing
"a small percentage of opium" fitted likewise. Finally, but not last in
importance, the Greek gentleman, Mr. Gianapolis, formed a unit of the
whole.
Denise Ryland had always despised those detective creations which
abound in French literature; perceiving in their marvelous deductions a
tortured logic incompatible with the classic models. She prided herself
upon her logic, possibly because it was a quality which she lacked, and
probably because she confused it with intuition, of which, to do her
justice, she possessed an unusual share. Now, this intuition was
at work, at work well and truly; and the result which this mental
contortionist ascribed to pure reason was nearer to the truth than a
real logician could well have hoped to attain by confining himself to
legitimate data.
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