Officer 666 Part 9

Whitney Barnes had planted himself with legs spread wide apart in front of one of the largest portraits in the room, a life-size painting of an aristocratic looking old man who seemed on the point of strangling in his stock.

Travers Gladwin turned to the painting and said with an unmistakable note of pride:

"The original Gladwin, my great-grandfather. Painted more than a hundred years ago by Gilbert Stuart."

"I guess you beat me, Travers--the original Barnes hadn't discovered mustard a hundred years ago. But I say, here's a Gainsborough, 'The Blue Boy.' By George! that's a stunner! Worth a small fortune, I suppose."

Whitney Barnes had crossed the room and stood before the most striking looking portrait in the collection, a tall, handsome boy in a vividly blue costume of the Gainsborough period.

The owner of "The Blue Boy" turned around, cast a fleeting glimpse at the portrait and turned away with a peculiar grimace.

"You suppose wrong, Whitney," he said, shortly. "That isn't--so--horribly--valuable."

"What! A big painting like that, by a chap famous enough to have a hat named after him."

"That was just about the way it struck me at first," answered Gladwin, "so I begged two old gentlemen in London to let me have it.

Persuaded them to part with it for a mere five hundred pounds, on condition--close attention, Whitney--that I keep the matter a secret. I was delighted with my bargain--until I saw _the original_."

"The original?"

"Ah ha! the original. It was quite a shock for me to come face to face with that and realize that my 'Blue Boy' had a streak of yellow in him."

"That sounds exciting," cried Barnes. "What did you do? Put the case in the hands of the police?"

"Not much," denied Gladwin emphatically. "That would have given the public a fine laugh. It deceived me, so I hung it up there to deceive others. It got you, you see. But you are the only one I've let into the secret--don't repeat it, will you?"

"Never!" promised Barnes. "It'll be too much of a lark to hear others rave over it."

"Thank you," acknowledged the bitten collector, curtly.

Barnes wandered from "The Blue Boy" and signalled out another painting.

"Who painted this?" he asked.

"That's a Veber--but do you know, Whitney, the more I think of it--there's something about that grapefruit girl, something gripping that"----

"I like these two," commented Barnes.

"There's something different about her--something"----

"Who is this by?" inquired Barnes, lost in admiration of a Meissonier.

"A blonde"----

"What?"

"And very young, and I know her smile"----

"Look here, Travers, what are these two worth?"

Gladwin volplaned to earth, climbed out of his sky chariot and was back in the midst of his art treasures again.

"I beg your pardon," he said hastily. "Which two?"

Barnes pointed to two of the smaller pictures.

"Guess," suggested his host.

"Five thousand."

"Multiply it by ten--then add something."

"No, really."

"Yes, really! That one on the left is a Rembrandt! and the other is a Corot!"

"My word; they're corkers, eh!"

"Yes, when you know who painted them, and if you happen to have the eye of a connoisseur."

"And what in creation is this?" exclaimed Barnes, as he stumbled against the great ornamental chest which stood against the wall just beneath the Rembrandt and Corot.

"Oh, let's get the exhibition over," said Gladwin, peevishly. "That's a treasure chest. Cost me a barrel--picked it up in Egypt."

"You never picked it up in your life," retorted Barnes, grasping the great metal bound chest and striving vainly to lift it. "Anything in it?" he asked, lifting the lid and answering himself in the negative.

"What's the whole collection worth?" asked Barnes, as he returned to where his friend was standing, gazing ruefully at "The Blue Boy."

"Oh, half a million or more. I really never kept track."

"Half a million! And you go abroad and leave all these things unguarded? You certainly are fond of taking chances. It's a marvel they haven't been stolen before now."

"Nonsense," said Gladwin. "I have a burglar alarm set here, and I'll wager there aren't half a dozen persons who know the Gladwin collection is hung in this house."

"Just the same--but I say, Travers, there's the door bell. Were you expecting anybody else."

Gladwin glanced about him nervously.

"No," he said sharply. "On the contrary, I didn't wish--what the deuce does it mean?"

"It means some one is at the door."

CHAPTER XII.

APPROACHING A WORLD OF MYSTERY.