In Friendship's Guise Part 13

"And even in Paris there were not many who knew that I painted the thing," he thought. "I painted it at the Hotel Netherlands, and when Von Whele went home and left it on my hands, I locked the canvas up in an old chest. No, I can't suspect any of my friends, past or present. But then who--By Jove! I have overlooked one point! The man who stole the picture knew just where it was kept, and he went straight to it.

Otherwise he would have rummaged the studio, and disarranged things badly before he found what he wanted."

A light flashed on Jack--a light of inspiration, of certainty and conviction. He remembered the visit of M. Felix Marchand, that he had commented on the painting, and had seen it restored to its place in the portfolio. Beyond doubt the mysterious Frenchman was the thief. Armed with his craftily-won knowledge, provided with a duplicate key to the studio, he had easily and safely accomplished his purpose. At what hour, and on what night, it was impossible to say. Probably a day or two after his first visit in the guise of a buyer.

"Monsieur must not take his loss too much to heart," said Alphonse, with well-meant sympathy. "If he informs the police--"

"I prefer to have nothing to do with the police, thank you. You may go, Alphonse. I shall dine in town, as usual."

When Alphonse had departed, Jack threw a sheet over the canvas on his easel, put on a smoking jacket, lighted his pipe, and stretched himself in an easy chair, to think about the startling discovery he had made.

The mystery presented many difficult points for his consideration. The rogue's sole aim was to get that particular painting, and he had taken nothing else, though he might have walked off with his pockets filled with valuable articles. He probably expected that the robbery would not be discovered for a long time.

But what was his object in stealing the Rembrandt? What did he hope to do with a copy of so well-known a work of art? Was there any connection between this crime and the one committed last night on the premises of the Pall Mall dealers? That was extremely unlikely. It was beyond question that Lamb and Drummond had had the original painting in their possession, and that daring burglars had taken it.

"I could see light in the matter," Jack reflected, "if the fellow had visited my place after hearing of the robbery at Lamb and Drummond's.

In that case, his scheme would have been to get the duplicate canvas--granted that he knew of its existence and whereabouts--and trade it off for the original. But he could not have known until early this morning, and he did not come then. I was sleeping here, and would have heard him. No, my picture must have been taken at least a week or ten days ago."

Jack smoked two more pipes, and the dark-brown Latakia tobacco from Oriental sh.o.r.es, stealing insidiously to his brain, brought him an idea.

"It is chimeric and improbable," he concluded, "but it is the most likely theory I have struck yet. Was my Frenchman the same chap who robbed Lamb and Drummond? Did he or his confederates steal both paintings, knowing them to be as like as two peas, with the intention of disposing of each as the original, and thus killing two birds with one stone? By Jove, I believe I've hit it! But, no, it is unlikely. Can I be right? I'll reserve my opinion, anyway, until I have written to Paris to ascertain if there is such a person as M. Felix Marchand, of the Pare Monceaux. If there is _not_, then I will interview Lamb and Drummond, and confide the whole story to them."

He decided to write the letter at once, but before he could reach his desk there was a sharp rap on the door. He opened it, and saw a tall, well-dressed gentleman, with a tawny beard and mustache, who bowed coldly and silently, and held out a card. Jack took it and read the name. His visitor was Stephen Foster.

CHAPTER XII.

A COWARDLY COMMUNICATION.

"You doubtless know why I have come," said Stephen Foster, as he stepped into the room and closed the door. He looked penetratingly at the young man through a pair of gold-rimmed eye-gla.s.ses.

"I think I do, sir," Jack replied, "and I am very glad to see you.

I rather expected a visit from you. Take a seat, please."

"Thank you--I prefer to stand. My business is very brief, Mr. Vernon.

It is quite unnecessary to enter into discussions or explanations. You are aware, of course, that my daughter has told me everything. Do you consider that you have acted honorably--that your conduct has been what a gentleman's should be?"

"It has, sir. Appearances are a little against me, I admit, but I have a clear conscience, Mr. Foster. I love your daughter with all my heart, and I have no higher aim in life than to make her my wife. I am heartily glad of the opportunity to tell you this to your face. Believe me, it was not from choice that I stooped to clandestine meetings."

Stephen Foster laughed contemptuously.

"You took an unfair advantage of an innocent and trustful girl," he said. "My daughter is young, ignorant of the world, and she does not know her own mind. You have cast a spell over her, as it were. She defies me--she refuses to obey my orders. You have estranged us, Mr.

Vernon, and brought a cloud into what was a happy home. I appeal to you, in a father's name, to release the girl from the ill-advised and foolish promises she made you."

"I cannot give her up, sir. I fear you do not understand how much Madge--Miss Foster--is to me. If words could prove my sincerity, my devotion to her--"

"Her marriage to you is out of the question."

"May I ask why?"

"My reasons do not concern you."

"But at least I am ent.i.tled to some explanation--it is no more than my due," said Jack. "Why do you object to me as a son-in-law? I am not a rake or an idler--you can easily satisfy yourself of my character, if you like. I am not a rich man, but I can offer your daughter a comfortable, even a luxurious, home. I have succeeded in my profession, and in another year I shall doubtless be making an income of two or three thousand pounds."

"I am ready to admit all that," was Stephen Foster's curt reply. "It does not alter the position, however."

"I suppose you have higher views for your daughter!" Jack cried, bitterly.

"Yes, I have," Stephen Foster admitted, after a moment's hesitation. "I don't mind saying as much. But this interview has already lasted longer than I intended it should, Mr. Vernon. Have I appealed to you in vain?"

"With all proper respect to you, sir, I can answer you in only one way,"

Jack replied, firmly. "Your daughter returns my affection, and she is a woman in ten thousand--a woman for whose love one might well count the world well lost. I cannot, I will not, give her up."

The young artist's declaration, strange to say, brought no angry response from Stephen Foster. For an instant the hard lines on his face melted away, and there was a gleam of something closely akin to admiration in his eyes; he actually made a half-movement to hold out his hand, but as quickly withdrew it. He turned and opened the door.

"Is this your last word?" he asked from the threshold.

"That rests with you. I cannot retreat from my position. Should I renounce your daughter, after winning her heart, I would deserve to be called--"

"Very well, sir," interrupted Stephen Foster. "I shall know what measures to take in the future. Forewarned is forearmed. And, by the way, to save you the trouble of hanging about Strand-on-the-Green, I may tell you that I have sent my daughter out of town on a visit."

With that parting shot he went down the short flight of steps, and pa.s.sed into the street. Jack closed the door savagely, and began to walk up and down the studio, as restless as a caged beast.

"Here's a nice mess!" he reflected. "Angry parent, obdurate daughter, and all that sort of thing. But I rather fancy I scored--he gained nothing by his visit, and after he thinks the matter over he will probably take a more sensible view of it. His appeal to me shows clearly that he failed to make Madge yield."

On the whole, after further consideration, Jack concluded that there was no ground for despondency. His spirits rose as he recalled the girl's earnest and loving promises, her a.s.surances of eternal fidelity.

"My darling will be true to me, come what may," he thought. "No amount of persuasion or threats can induce her to give me up, and in the end, when Stephen Foster is convinced of that, he will make the best of it and withdraw his objections. If Madge has been sent out of town, she went against her will. But, of course, she will manage to let me hear from her."

Jack sat down to his desk, intending to write a letter to a friend in Paris, a well-to-do artist who lived in the neighborhood of the Pare Monceaux. He held his pen undecidedly for a moment, and then leaned back in his chair with a puzzled countenance.

"By Jove, it's queer," he muttered; "but Stephen Foster's voice was awfully familiar. We never met before, and I never laid eyes on the man, so far as I can remember. I am mistaken. It is only a fancy. No--I have it! He suggests M. Felix Marchand--there is something in common in their speech, though it is very slight. What an odd coincidence!"

That it could possibly be more than a coincidence did not occur to Jack, and he would have laughed the idea to scorn. He dismissed the matter from his mind, wrote and posted the letter, and then went off to dine by appointment with Victor Nevill.

There was no word from Madge the next day, and it is to be feared that Jack's work suffered in consequence, and that Alphonse found him slightly irritable. But on the following morning a letter came in the well-known handwriting. It was very brief. The girl was _not_ out of town, but was stopping near Regent's Park with an elderly maternal aunt who lived in Portland Terrace, and was addicted to the companionship of c.o.c.katoos and cats, not to speak of a brace of overfed, half-blind pugs.

"I am in exile," the letter concluded, "and the dragon is a watchful jailer. But she sleeps in the afternoon, and at three o'clock to-morrow I will be inside the Charles street gate."

"To-morrow" meant to-day, and until lunch time Jack's brush flew energetically over the canvas. He was at the trysting-place at the appointed hour, and Madge was there waiting for him, so ravishingly dressed that he could scarcely resist the temptation to gather her in his arms. As they strolled through the park he rather gloomily described his visit from Stephen Foster, but the girl's half-smiling, half-tearful look of affection rea.s.sured him.

"You foolish boy!" she said, chidingly. "As if there were any danger of your losing me. Why, I wouldn't give you up if you wanted me to! I think you got the best of father, dear. He understands now, and by and by he will relent. He is a good sort, really, and you will like him when you know him better."

"We made a bad beginning," Jack said, ruefully.

They had reached the lake by this time, and they went on to a bench in a shady and sequestered spot. Madge's high spirits seemed suddenly to desert her, and she looked pensively across the glimmering water to the tall mansions of Hanover Terrace.