the poor
chap was mentally irresponsible, and that he actually did steal the
picture. But you must take into account his colossal vanity, his
monumental egotism. Richmond never admitted for a moment that he was a
failure as an artist; there was a cabal against him, and that accounted
for everything. This affair was simply his revenge upon his critics and
detractors; he would turn out these reproductions of a masterpiece so
perfect in their technique as not to be distinguished from their
original, nor indeed from each other. So having set the artistic world
by the ears, he would enjoy his triumph, at first in secret, and
afterwards openly."

"But what was the picture returned to the Hermitage?"

"One of these same copies--that was the supreme sarcasm."

"The original, then--the 'Red Duchess'?"

"The fuel in the stove consisted of some strips of painted canvas,"
said Indiman, gravely. "I don't know, I can't be sure--they were almost
consumed when I shut the door."

"An imperfect copy," I hazarded.

"Some day we will take a trip to the Hermitage to make sure," answered
Indiman. "'Where ignorance is bliss,' etc. What do you think, Blake?"
he continued, turning to our companion.

"It's all the same to me, sir," answered Blake, a little ruefully. "It
was a big thing, right enough, but somehow I seem to have missed it all
round. Well, good-night, sir, if you'll kindly set me down at this
corner."

Indiman and I enjoyed a small supper under Oscar's watchful eye. The
night was fine and we started to walk home. Have I said that Indiman
had proposed that I should move my traps over to his house and take up
my quarters there for an indefinite period? In exchange for services
rendered, as he put it, and somehow he made it possible for me to
accept the invitation. It had been twenty-four hours now since I had
first enjoyed the honor of Mr. Esper Indiman's acquaintance; the
novelty of having enough to eat--actually enough--was already beginning
to wear off. Man is a wonderful creature; give him time and he will
adjust himself to anything.

At the corner of Fifth Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street, Indiman
stopped suddenly and picked up a small object. It was a latch-key of
the familiar Yale-lock pattern. I looked at it rather indifferently.

"Man! man!" said Indiman, with simulated despair. "Surely you are an
incorrigibly prosaic person. A key--does it suggest to you no
possibilities of mystery, of romance?"

"Well, not