t little miniatures."

Faber had risen as he discoursed. "I have a copy of it," he added,
leading the way into his own private gallery, while Craig and I followed
him without comment.

We gazed long and intently at the face of the central figure. Small
though it was, it was a study in itself, a puzzle, distracting,
enigmatical. There was a hard, cruel sensuousness about the beautiful
mouth which the painter seemed to have captured and fixed beneath the
very oils. Masked cleverly in the painted penetrating dark eyes was a
sort of cunning which, combined with the ravishing curves of the cheeks
and chin, transfixed the observer.

Something in the face reminded me of a face I had once seen. It was not
exactly Rita's face, but it had a certain quality that recalled it. I
fancied that there was in both the living and the painted face a
jealousy that would brook no rivalry, that would dare all for the object
of its love.

Faber saw that we had caught the spirit of the portrait, and seemed
highly gratified.

"What crimes a man might commit under the spell of a woman like that!"
exclaimed Craig, noticing his gratification. "By the way, do you know
that Miss Fleming was said to have had the original--and that it is
gone?"

Faber looked from one to the other of us without moving a muscle of his
face.

"Why, yes," he replied steadily. I could not make out whether he had
expected and been prepared for the question or not. At any rate he
added, half serious, half smiling, "Even for her portrait someone was
ready to risk even life and honor to kidnap her!"

Evidently in his ardor he personified the picture, felt that the thief
must have been moved by what the psychologists call "an imperative idea"
for the mere possession of such a treasure.

"Still," Craig remarked dryly, "the wanderings of the lost Duchess by
Gainsborough for a quarter of a century stuffed into a tin tube, to say
nothing of the final sordid ending of the capture of Mona Lisa, might
argue a devotion among art thieves a bit short of infatuation. I think
we'll find this lady, too, to be held for ransom, not for love."

Faber said nothing. He was evidently waiting for Kennedy to proceed.

"I may photograph your copy of the Fete?" queried Craig finally, "so as
to use it in identifying the real one?"

"Surely," replied the collector. "I have no objection. If I should
happen to be out when you came, I'll leave word with my man to let you
go ahead."

Just