into his pocket and
lifting his eyes to the great portrait of the ancestral Gladwin.

"Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly and with palpable relish, "that's a
Stuart! Is that the great-grandfather, Watkins?"

"Yes, sir," responded Watkins, without any of his companion's
enthusiasm.

"H'm," with the same grim emphasis, and off came the overcoat to be
carelessly tossed across his hat and stick. His eye fell upon the
great antique chest by the wall.

He lifted the lid to inspect its void interior. Glancing up above it,
he motioned to Watkins and said:

"Here, help me get this out of the way."

Watkins glided to one end of the chest and together they hauled it
clear of the wall. This done, he addressed Watkins as if he were but a
creature to command:

"I can manage alone in here, but I want to be ready to leave by the
time Miss Burton arrives. You go outside and wait in the car--and keep
a sharp lookout."

Watkins bowed himself out with his stereotyped, "Yes, sir," and the
door clicked gently after him.

The now lone invader returned to his interested survey of the
paintings that covered the walls, turning easily on his heel until his
line of vision embraced "The Blue Boy."

From his difficult peephole Travers Gladwin could see the sharp, stern
features wrinkle with smiles before the intruder laughed lightly and
breathed with seeming great enjoyment:

"Ha! The Blue Boy."

The smile went out as swiftly as it had come and was replaced by an
utterly different expression as he swung about and visualized the
Rembrandt on the wall above where the great empty chest had stood.

There was reverence and quick admiration in every feature as he bowed
and exclaimed with a long sigh:

"Rembrandt! Rembrandt! God!--to paint like that!"

The emotions of this remarkable young man came and went with the
quickness of his eye.

While still in the act of outpouring his admiration he whipped from
the tail of his dress coat a flat fold of a dozen or more sheets of
wrapping paper, shook them out and laid them on the lid of the chest.

With another swift gesture he produced a knife, sprang the thin
gleaming blade and walked up to the Rembrandt.

He raised the knife to the canvas with the ease of a practiced hand,
when he heard a movement behind him, and turned his head.

Travers Gladwin had stepped from the sheltering screen of portieres
and stopped abruptly.

Whatever shock this sudden apparition of a uniformed policeman was to
t