e admission promptly,
foreseeing that a denial might have awkward consequences in the future.
"I know Jack Vernon well," he added. "He is an old friend. But I am
sorry to inform you that he is not in England at present."

This was false, for Nevill had noted in the morning paper that Jack was
one of the passengers by the P. and O. steamship _Ismaila_, which had
docked on the previous day. Mr. Lamb, it appeared, was not aware of the
fact.

"Your nephew is correct, Sir Lucius," he said. "Mr. Vernon has been in
India for some months, acting as special war artist for the _Universe_.
But he is expected home very shortly--in the course of a week, I
believe."

"I shall not be here then," said Sir Lucius. "I am to leave London
to-day. What would you suggest?"

"Allow the canvas to remain in my hands--I will take the best of care
of it," replied Mr. Lamb. "I will write to you as soon as Mr. Vernon
returns, and will arrange that you shall meet him here."

"Very well, sir," assented Sir Lucius. "Let the matter rest at that.
When I hear from you I will run up to town."

He still hoped to learn that he had bought the original picture, and he
would have preferred an immediate solution of the question. He was in a
dejected mood when he left the shop with his nephew, but he cheered up
under the influence of a good lunch and a pint of port, and he was in
fairly good spirits when he took an afternoon train from Victoria to his
stately Sussex home.

"Hang the Rembrandt!" he said at parting. "I don't care how it turns
out. Run down for a few days at the end of the month, Victor--I can give
you some good shooting."

Glancing over a paper that evening, Mr. Lamb read of Jack Vernon's
return. But to find him proved to be a different matter, and at the end
of a week he was still unsuccessful. Then, meeting Victor Nevill on
Regent street, he induced him to join in the search for the missing
artist. The commission by no means pleased Nevill, but he did not see
his way to refuse.

* * * * *

For thirteen days Sir Lucius Chesney had been back at Priory Court,
happy among his horses and dogs, his short-horns and orchids; his
pictures rested temporarily under a cloud, and he was rarely to be found
in the spacious gallery. In London, Victor Nevill enjoyed life with as
much zest as his conscience would permit; Madge Foster dragged through
weary days and duller evenings at Strand-on-the-Green; and the editor o