"The death of Miss Fleming has completely upset me," he confessed after we had introduced ourselves without telling too much. "You see, I was quite well acquainted with her."

Kennedy said nothing, but I could feel that he was longing to ask questions leading up to whether Faber had been the mysterious diner in the Fleming Studio the night before.

"I suppose you are acquainted with Watteau's 'Fete du Printemps'?" shot out Craig, after a few inconsequential questions, watching Faber's face furtively.

"Indeed I am," replied the young man, apparently not disconcerted in the least.

The fact was that he seemed quite willing, even eager to discuss the painting. I could not make it out, unless it might be that any subject was less painful than the sudden death of Miss Fleming.

"Yes," he continued voluntarily, "I suppose you know it represents a group of dancers. The central figure of the group, as everyone believes, is reputed to be the pa.s.sionate and jealous Madame de Montespan, whom the beautiful Madame de Maintenon replaced in the affections of Louis XIV.

"Why, no one thinks of Watteau, with his delightful daintiness and many graceful figures on such masterfully disposed backgrounds as a portrait painter. But the Fete shows, I have always contended, that he drew on many real faces for his characters. Yes, he could paint portraits, too, wonderfully minute and exact 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 then the telephone rang and Faber reached for it before we could thank him and say good-night.

"h.e.l.lo--oh, Miss Tourville, how do you do? Why--er--yes--yes, I'm listening."

They chatted for several minutes, Faber answering mostly in monosyllables. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought the conversation, at least at his end of the line, constrained. As he hung up the receiver, I fancied, too, that Faber seemed to look on us with a sort of suspicion. What was his connection with Rita, I wondered? What had Rita told him?

A moment later we had said good-by and had gained the street, Kennedy still making no comment on the case.

"There's nothing more that we can do tonight," remarked Craig, looking at his watch finally as we walked along. "Let us go over to the City Laboratory and see Dr. Leslie, as I promised Blythe."

CHAPTER XX

THE MECHANICAL CONNOISSEUR

Dr. Leslie, the Coroner, was an old friend of ours with whom we had co-operated in several cases. When we reached his office we found Dr.

Blythe there already, waiting for us.

"Have you found anything yet?" asked Dr. Blythe with what I felt was just a trace of professional pique at the fact that neither physician had been able to shed any light on the case so far.

"I can't say--yet," responded Craig, not noticing Blythe's manner, as from the piece of tissue paper in which he had wrapped them he produced the broken bits of bottle.

Carefully he washed off the jagged pieces, as though perhaps some of the liquid the bottle had contained might have adhered to the gla.s.s.

"I suppose you have animals here for experiment?" he asked of Leslie.

The Coroner nodded.

"Chickens?" asked Craig with a broad smile at the double meaning.

"A Leghorn rooster," returned Dr. Leslie with a laugh.

"Good--bring him on," replied Craig briskly.

Quickly Kennedy shot a small quant.i.ty of the liquid he had obtained by washing the bits of gla.s.s into the veins of the white Leghorn. Then he released the rooster, flapping about.

In a corner chanticleer stood, preening his feathers and restoring his ruffled dignity, while we compared opinions.

"Look!" exclaimed Kennedy a few minutes later, when we had almost forgotten the rooster.

His bright red comb was now whitish. As we watched, a moment later it turned dark blue. Otherwise, however, he seemed unaffected.

"What is it?" I asked in amazement, turning to Craig.

"Ergot, I think," he replied tersely. "At least that is one test for its presence."

"Ergot!" repeated Dr. Leslie, reaching for a book on a shelf above him.

Turning the pages hurriedly, he read, "There has been no experience in the separation of the const.i.tuents of ergot from the organs of the body.

An attempt might be made by the Dragendorff process, but success is doubtful."

"Dragendorff found it so, at any rate," put in Dr. Blythe positively.

Running his fingers over the backs of the other books, Dr. Leslie selected another. "It is practically impossible," he read, "to separate ergot from the tissues so as to identify it."

"Absolutely," a.s.serted Dr. Blythe quickly.