He was
horribly afraid. Chris patted the silky head and dismissed the dog
with a curt command. He went off instantly with a wistful, backward
look in his eye.

"We are going to be great friends, that doggie and I," Chris said, gaily.
"And I don't like you any the better, Mr. Henson, because you don't like
dogs and they don't like you. Dogs are far better judges of character
than you imagine. Dr. Bell says--"

"What Dr. Bell?" Henson demanded, swiftly.

Chris had paused just in time: perhaps her successful disguise had made
her a trifle reckless.

"Dr. Hatherly Bell," she said. "He used to be a famous man before he fell
into disgrace over something or another. I heard him lecture on the
animal instinct in Boston once, and he said--but as you don't care for
dogs it doesn't matter what he said."

"Do you happen to know anything about him?" Henson asked.

"Very little. I never met him, if that is what you mean. But I heard that
he had done something particularly disgraceful. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing more than a mere coincidence," Henson replied. "It is just a
little strange that you should mention his name here, especially after
what had happened last night. I suppose that, being an American, you fell
in love with the Rembrandt. It was you who suggested securing it in its
place, and then preventing my little jest from being successfully carried
out. Of course you have heard that the print was stolen once?"

"The knowledge is as general as the spiriting away of the
Gainsborough Duchess."

"Quite so. Well, the man who stole the Rembrandt was Dr. Hatherly Bell.
He stole it that he might pay a gambling debt, and it was subsequently
found in his luggage before he could pass it on to the purchaser. I am
glad you mentioned it, because the name of Bell is not exactly a
favourite at the castle."

"I am much obliged to you," said Chris, gravely. "Was Dr. Bell a
favourite once?"

"Oh, immense. He had great influence over Lord Littimer. He--but here
comes Littimer in one of his moods. He appears to be angry about
something."

Littimer strode up, with a frown on his face and a telegram in his hand.
Henson assumed to be mildly sympathetic.

"I hope it is nothing serious?" he murmured.

"Serious," Littimer cried. "The acme of audacity--yes. The telegram has
just come. 'Must see you tonight on important business affecting the
past. Shall hope to be with you some time after dinner!'"

"And who is the audacious aspiran