"It sounds plausible," said Jack. "That's just my way of looking at it.

The advantage would be--"

"That the thieves would have two pictures, equally valuable to them, to dispose of secretly," put in Mr. Lamb. "We may safely a.s.sume, then, that our enterprising burglars are in possession of a brace of Rembrandts.

What they will do with them it is difficult to say. They will likely make no move at present, but it is possible that they will try to dispose of them in the Continental market or in America, in which case I have hopes that they will blunder into the hands of the police. Proper precautions have been taken both at home and abroad."

"Is there any clew yet?"

Mr. Lamb shook his head sadly.

"Not a ray of light has been thrown on the mystery," he replied, "though the best Scotland Yard men are at work. You may depend upon it that the insurance people, who stand to lose ten thousand pounds, will leave no stone unturned. As for Raper, our watchman, he has been discharged. Mr.

Drummond and I are convinced that his story was true, but it was impossible to overlook his gross carelessness. We never knew that he was in the habit of going nightly to the public house in Crown Court."

"It's a wonder you were not robbed before," said Jack. "You have my address--will you let me know if anything occurs?"

"Certainly, Mr. Vernon. Must you be off? Good morning!"

Jack sauntered along Pall Mall, and turned up Regent street. At Piccadilly Circus he saw two men standing before the cigar shop on the corner. One was young and boyish looking. The other, a few years older, was of medium height and stout beyond proportion; he wore a tweed suit of a rather big check pattern, and the coat was b.u.t.toned over a scarlet waistcoat; the straw hat, gaudily beribboned, shaded a fat, jolly, half-comical face, of the type that readily inspires confidence. He was talking to his companion animatedly when he saw Jack approaching. With a boisterous exclamation of delight he rushed up to him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Clare, old boy!" he cried.

"Jimmie Drexell!" Jack gasped in amazement. "Dear old chap, how awfully glad I am to see you!"

With genuine and heartfelt emotion they shook hands and looked into each other's eyes--these two who had not met for long years, since the rollicksome days of student life in Paris when they had been as intimate as brothers.

"You're fit as a king, my boy--not much changed," spluttered Drexell, with a strong American accent to his kindly, mellow voice. "I was going to look you up to-day--only landed at Southampton yesterday--got beastly tired of New York--yearned for London and Paris--shan't go back for six months or a year, hanged if I do."

"I'm jolly glad to hear it, Jimmie."

"We'll see a lot of each other--eh, old man? So, you've stuck to the name of Vernon? I called you Clare, didn't I? Yes, I forgot. You told me you had taken the other name when you wrote a couple of years ago. I haven't heard from you since, except through the papers. You've made a hit, I understand. Doing well?"

"Rather! I've no cause to complain. And you, Jimmie? What's become of the art?"

"Chucked it, Jack--it was no go. I painted like a blooming Turk--hired a studio--filled it with jimcrackery--got the best-looking models--wore a velvet coat and grew long hair. But it was all useless. I earned twenty-five dollars in three years. I had a picture in a dealer's shop--his place burnt down--I made him fork over. Then a deceased relative left me $150,000--said I deserved it for working so hard in Paris. A good one, eh? I leased the studio to the Salvation Army, and here I am, a poor devil of an artist out of work."

Jack laughed heartily.

"Art never _was_ much in your line," he said, "though I remember how you kept pegging away at it. And no one can be more pleased than myself to learn that you've dropped into a fortune. Stick to it, Jimmie."

"There will be another one some day, Jack--when this is gone. By the way, I met old Nevill last night--dined with him. And that reminds me--"

He turned to his companion, the fresh-faced boy, and introduced him to Jack as the Honorable Bertie Raven. The two shook hands cordially, and exchanged a few commonplace words.

"Come on; we've held up this corner long enough," exclaimed Drexell.

"Let's go and lunch together somewhere. I'll leave it to you, Raven.

Name your place."

"Prince's, then," was the prompt rejoinder.

As they walked along Piccadilly the Honorable Bertie was forced ahead by the narrowness of the pavement and the jostling crowds, and Drexell whispered at Jack's ear:

"A good sort, that young chap. I met him in New York a year ago. His next eldest brother, the Honorable George, is over there now. I believe he is going to marry a cousin of mine--a girl who will come into a pot of money when her governor dies."

Nine o'clock at night, and a room in Beak street, Regent street; a back apartment looking into a dingy court, furnished with a sort of tawdry, depressing luxury, and lighted by a pair of candles. A richly dressed woman who had once been extremely handsome, and still retained more than a trace of her charms, half reclined on a couch; a fluffy ma.s.s of coppery-red hair had escaped from under her hat, and shaded her large eyes; shame and confusion, mingled with angry defiance, deepened the artificial blush on her cheeks.

Victor Nevill stood in the middle of the floor, confronting her with a faint, mocking smile at his lips. He had not taken the trouble to remove his hat. He wore evening dress, with a light cloak over it, and he twirled a stick carelessly between his gloved fingers.

"So it is really you!" he said.

"If you came to sneer at me, go!" the woman answered spitefully. "You have your revenge. How did you find me?"

"It was not easy, but I persevered--"

"Why?"

"For a purpose. I will tell you presently. And do not think that I came to sneer. I am sorry for you--grieved to find you struggling in the vortex of London." He looked about the room, which, indeed, told a plain story. "You were intended for better things," he added. "Where is Count Nordhoff?"

"He left me--three years ago."

"I wouldn't mind betting that you cleaned him out, and then heartlessly turned him adrift."

"You are insolent!"

"And I dare say you have had plenty of others since. What has become of the Jew?"

The woman's eyes flashed like a tiger's.

"I wish I had him here now!" she cried. "He deserted me--broke a hundred promises. I have not seen him for a week."

"You are suffering heavily for the past."

"For the past!" the woman echoed dully. "Victor," she said with a sudden change of voice, "_you_ loved me once--"

"Yes, once. But you crushed that love--killed it forever. No stage sentiment, please. Understand that, plainly."

The brief hope died out of the woman's eyes, and was replaced by a gleam of hatred. She looked at the man furiously.

"There is no need to fly into a pa.s.sion," said Nevill. "We can at least be friends. I cherish no ill-feeling--I pity you sincerely. And yet you are still beautiful enough to turn some men's heads. How are you off for money?"

The woman opened a purse and dashed a handful of silver to the floor.

"That is my all!" she cried, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Then you must find a way out of your difficulties. I am going to have a serious talk with you."

Nevill drew a chair up to the couch, and his first words roused the woman's interest. He spoke for ten minutes or more, now in whispers, now with a rising inflection; now persuasively, now with well-feigned indignation and scorn. The effect which his argument had on his companion was shown by the swift changes that pa.s.sed over her face; she interrupted him frequently, asking questions and making comments. At the end the woman rustled her silken skirts disdainfully, and rose to her feet.