d Von Whele looking over my shoulder and
puffing the smoke of Dutch tobacco into my eyes! I was sorry to read of
his death, and the sale of his collection. He was a good sort, if he
_was_ forgetful. By Jove, I've half a mind to box up my duplicate and
send it to his executors. I wonder if they would settle the long-standing
account."

Several hours later, when Jack had gone home and was hard at work in his
studio, Victor Nevill sauntered down St. James street. He wore evening
dress, and carried a light overcoat on his arm. He stopped at Lamb and
Drummond's window for a few moments, and scrutinized the Rembrandt
carelessly, but with a rather curious expression on his face. Then he
looked at his watch--the time was half-past five--and cutting across
into the park he walked briskly to St. James' Park station. The train
that he wanted was announced, and when it came in he watched the row of
carriages as they flashed by him. He entered a first-class smoker, and
nodded to Stephen Foster. The two were not alone in the compartment, and
during the ride of half an hour they exchanged only a few words, and
gave close attention to their papers. But they had plenty to talk about
after they got out at Gunnersbury, and their conversation was grave and
serious as they walked slowly toward the river, by the long shady
streets lined with villas.

Stephen Foster's house stood close to the lower end of
Strand-on-the-Green. It was more than a century old, and was larger
than it looked from the outside. It had the staid and comfortable stamp
of the Georgian period, with its big square windows, and the unique
fanlight over the door. Directly opposite the entrance, across the strip
of paved quay, was a sort of a water-gate leading down to the sedgy
shore of the Thames--a flight of stone steps, cut out of the masonry,
from the foot of which it was possible to take boat at high tide. In the
rear of the house was a walled garden, filled with flowers, shrubbery,
and fruit trees.

Opening the door with his key, Stephen Foster led his guest into the
drawing-room, where Madge was sitting with a book. She kissed her
father, and gave a hand reluctantly to Nevill, whom she addressed as Mr.
Royle. She resumed her reading, perched on a couch by the window, and
Nevill stole numerous glances at her while he chatted with his host.

The curio-dealer dined early--he was always hungry when he came back
from town--and dinner was announced at seven o'clock. I