CHAPTER XI.
A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY.
Stephen Foster sat in his office at No. 320 Wardour street, with half adozen of the morning and afternoon papers scattered about his desk. Itwas two o'clock, but he had not gone out to lunch, and it had notoccurred to him that the usual hour for it was past. Footsteps came downthe length of the shop, and Victor Nevill opened the door. He closed itquickly behind him as he entered the room; his face expressed extremeagitation, and he looked like a man who has spent a sleepless night.
"You have seen them?" he exclaimed, pointing to the papers. "You haveread the different accounts?"
"Yes, I have read them--that is all. They tell me nothing. You couldhave knocked me down with a feather when I bought a _Telegraph_ atGunnersbury station this morning, and saw the headlines."
"And I first heard of it at breakfast--I got up rather late. I openedthe _Globe_ and there it was, staring me in the eyes. It knocked myappetite, I can assure you. What do you make of it?"
"It's a mystery," replied Stephen Foster, "and I am all in the darkabout it. Devilish unfortunate, I call it."
"Right you are! And it's more than that. You have seen the _Globe_?"
"Yes; here it is."
"Did you know that the picture was insured?"
"I judged that it was, but the fact was quite unimportant."
"The Mutual people won't regard it in that light."
"Hardly. Will you have a drink, my dear fellow? You are looking seedy."
A stiff brandy-and-soda pulled Victor Nevill together, and for nearly anhour the two men spoke in low and serious tones, occasionally referringto the heap of papers.
"Not the slightest clew," said Stephen Foster. "It is absurd to suspectRaper of collusion with the thieves--his only fault was carelessness.Leave the affair to the police. I shan't give it another thought."
"That's easier said than done," Nevill replied. He rose and put on hishat. "I must be off now. Oh, about the other matter--have you saidanything further to your daughter?"
"Not a word."
"She still defies you?"
"She refuses to give the fellow up." Stephen Foster sighed. "The girlhas lots of spirit."
"You won't let her have her own way?"
"Not if I can prevent it."
"Prevent it?" echoed Nevill, sneeringly. "What measures will you take?"
"I shall see the artist."
"Much good that will do," said Nevill. "Better begin by enforcing yourauthority over your daughter."
"I can't be harsh with her," Stephen Foster answered. "I am moreinclined to pity than anger."
Under the circumstances, now that he knew how far matters had gonewith the woman he loved and his rival, Victor Nevill was curiouslyunconcerned and unmoved, at least outwardly. It is true that he did notdespair of success, strong as were the odds against him. There was ahard and evil expression on his face, which melted at times into acunning smile of satisfaction, as he walked down Wardour street.
"I am on the right scent, and the game will soon be in my hands," hereflected. "In another week I ought to be able to put an effectual spokein Jack Vernon's wheel. It will be a blow for Madge, but she will forgethim presently, and then I will commence to play my cards. I won'tfail--I'm determined to make her my wife. Shall I let Foster into thescheme? I think not. Better let things take their course, and keep himin ignorance of the fact that I had a hand in the revelation, if itcomes off. I'm afraid it won't, though."
We must take the reader now to Ravenscourt Park, to the studio of JackVernon. Early in the afternoon, while Victor Nevill was closeted withStephen Foster, the young artist was sitting at his easel. He had beenworking since breakfast on a landscape, a commission from one of hiswealthy patrons. Things had gone unusually well with him lately. Hispicture was on the line at the Academy, it had been favorably reviewed,and he had received several offers for it. This indicated increasedfame, with a larger income, and a luxurious little home for Madge.
"Will you have your lunch now, sir?" Alphonse called from the doorwayof an inner room.
"Yes, you may fetch it," Jack replied. "I'm as hungry as a bear."
He usually took his second meal at an earlier hour, but to-day he hadgone on working, deeply interested in his subject. He put aside hisbrush and palette, and seated himself at the table, on which Alphonsehad placed a couple of chops, a bottle of Bass, and half a loaf ofFrench bread. When he had finished, he lighted a cigarette and openedthe _Telegraph_ lazily. He had not looked at it before, and he uttereda cry of surprise as his eyes fell on the headlines announcing the theftof the Rembrandt. He perused the brief paragraph, and turned to hisservant.
"Go out and buy me an afternoon paper," he said.
Alphonse departed, and, having the luck to encounter a newsboy in thestreet, he speedily returned with the latest edition of the _Globe_. Itcontained nothing more in substance than the earlier issues, but thefull account of the mysterious robbery was there, a column long, andwith keen interest Jack read every word of it over twice.
"It's a queer case," he said to himself, "and the sort of thingthat doesn't often happen. The last sensation of the kind was theGainsborough, years ago. What will the thieves do with their prize?They can't well dispose of it. It will be a waiting game. I daresaythe watchman knows more than he cares to tell. And so the picture wasinsured--over-insured, too, for I don't believe it would have broughtten thousand pounds. That's rather an interesting fact. Now, if Lamband Drummond were like some unscrupulous dealers that I know, insteadof being beyond reproach, there would be reason to think--"
He did not finish the mental sentence, but tossed the paper aside, androse suddenly to his feet.
"By Jove, I'll hang up the duplicate!" he muttered. "I was going tosend it to Von Whele's executors, but it is worth keeping now, as acuriosity. It will be an attraction to the chaps who come to see me.I hope it won't get me into trouble. It is so deucedly like the originalthat I might be accused of stealing it from the premises of Lamb andDrummond."
He crossed the studio, knelt down by the couch and pulled the draperyaside, and drew out the half-dozen of bulging portfolios; they had notbeen disturbed since the visit of his French customer, M. FelixMarchand. He opened the one in which he knew he had seen the Rembrandton that occasion, but he failed to find it, though he turned over thesketches singly. He examined them again, with increasing wonder, andthen went carefully through the other portfolios. The search wasfruitless. The copy of Martin Von Whele's Rembrandt was gone!
"What can it mean?" thought Jack. "I distinctly remember putting thecanvas back in the biggest portfolio--I could swear to that. I have nottouched them since. Yet the picture is gone--missing--stolen. Yes,stolen! What else? By Jove, it's a queer coincidence that both theoriginal and the copy should disappear simultaneously!"
He struck a match and looked beneath the couch; there was nothing there.He ransacked about the studio for a few minutes, and then summoned hisservant.
"Was there a stranger here at any time during the last two weeks?" heasked; "any person whom you did not know?"
Alphonse shook his head decidedly.
"There was no one, monsieur. I am certain of that."
"And my friends--"
"On such occasions as monsieur's friends called while he was out, I wasin the studio as long as they remained."
"Yes, of course. When did you sweep under this couch?"
"About three weeks ago, monsieur," was the hesitating reply.
"No less than that?"
"No less, monsieur."
Jack was satisfied. There was no room for suspicion, he told himself.The man's word was to be relied upon. But by what agency, then, had thecanvas disappeared? How could a thief break into the studio withoutleaving some trace of his visit, in the shape of a broken window or aforced lock? There had been plenty of opportunities, it is true--nightswhen Alphonse had been at home and Jack in town.
"Has monsieur lost something?"
"Yes, a large painting h
as been stolen," Jack replied.
He went to the door and examined the lock from the outside, by the aidof matches, though with no hope of finding anything. But a surprisingand ominous discovery rewarded him at once. In and around the key-hole,sticking to it, were some minute fragments of wax.
"By Jove, I have it!" cried Jack. "Here is the clew! Look, Alphonse! Thescoundrel, whoever he was, took an impression in wax on his first visit.He had a key made from it, came back later at night, and stole thepicture. It was a cunning piece of work."
"Monsieur is right," said Alphonse. "A thief has robbed him. You suspectnobody?"
"Not a soul," replied Jack.
Though the shreds of wax showed how the studio had been entered, he wasno nearer the solution of the mystery than before. He excepted the fewtrustworthy friends--only three or four--who knew that he had theduplicate Rembrandt.
"And even in Paris there were not many who knew that I painted thething," he thought. "I painted it at the Hotel Netherlands, and when VonWhele went home and left it on my hands, I locked the canvas up in anold chest. No, I can't suspect any of my friends, past or present. Butthen who--By Jove! I have overlooked one point! The man who stole thepicture knew just where it was kept, and he went straight to it.Otherwise he would have rummaged the studio, and disarranged thingsbadly before he found what he wanted."
A light flashed on Jack--a light of inspiration, of certainty andconviction. He remembered the visit of M. Felix Marchand, that he hadcommented on the painting, and had seen it restored to its place in theportfolio. Beyond doubt the mysterious Frenchman was the thief. Armedwith his craftily-won knowledge, provided with a duplicate key to thestudio, he had easily and safely accomplished his purpose. At what hour,and on what night, it was impossible to say. Probably a day or two afterhis first visit in the guise of a buyer.
"Monsieur must not take his loss too much to heart," said Alphonse, withwell-meant sympathy. "If he informs the police--"
"I prefer to have nothing to do with the police, thank you. You may go,Alphonse. I shall dine in town, as usual."
When Alphonse had departed, Jack threw a sheet over the canvas on hiseasel, put on a smoking jacket, lighted his pipe, and stretched himselfin an easy chair, to think about the startling discovery he had made.
The mystery presented many difficult points for his consideration. Therogue's sole aim was to get that particular painting, and he had takennothing else, though he might have walked off with his pockets filledwith valuable articles. He probably expected that the robbery would notbe discovered for a long time.
But what was his object in stealing the Rembrandt? What did he hope todo with a copy of so well-known a work of art? Was there any connectionbetween this crime and the one committed last night on the premises ofthe Pall Mall dealers? That was extremely unlikely. It was beyondquestion that Lamb and Drummond had had the original painting in theirpossession, and that daring burglars had taken it.
"I could see light in the matter," Jack reflected, "if the fellow hadvisited my place after hearing of the robbery at Lamb and Drummond's.In that case, his scheme would have been to get the duplicatecanvas--granted that he knew of its existence and whereabouts--and tradeit off for the original. But he could not have known until early thismorning, and he did not come then. I was sleeping here, and would haveheard him. No, my picture must have been taken at least a week or tendays ago."
Jack smoked two more pipes, and the dark-brown Latakia tobacco fromOriental shores, stealing insidiously to his brain, brought him an idea.
"It is chimeric and improbable," he concluded, "but it is the most likelytheory I have struck yet. Was my Frenchman the same chap who robbed Lamband Drummond? Did he or his confederates steal both paintings, knowingthem to be as like as two peas, with the intention of disposing of eachas the original, and thus killing two birds with one stone? By Jove, Ibelieve I've hit it! But, no, it is unlikely. Can I be right? I'llreserve my opinion, anyway, until I have written to Paris to ascertainif there is such a person as M. Felix Marchand, of the Pare Monceaux. Ifthere is _not_, then I will interview Lamb and Drummond, and confide thewhole story to them."
He decided to write the letter at once, but before he could reach hisdesk there was a sharp rap on the door. He opened it, and saw a tall,well-dressed gentleman, with a tawny beard and mustache, who bowedcoldly and silently, and held out a card. Jack took it and read thename. His visitor was Stephen Foster.