“I am sure you do, my boy.  I am undecided what steps to take next.  It would be a good idea to stop in town for a couple of days and consult a private inquiry bureau.  But no, not in this weather.  I will let the matter rest for the present, and run up later on, when we get a spell of sunshine and cold.”

“I think that is wise.  Meanwhile I am at your service.”

“Thank you.  Oh, by the way, Victor, you must have incurred some considerable expense in my behalf.  Let me write you a check.”

“There is no hurry—­I don’t need the money,” Nevill answered, carelessly.  “I will look up the account and send it to you.”

“Or bring it with you when you come down to Priory Court for Christmas, if I can induce you to leave town.”

“I shall be delighted to come, I assure you.”

“Then we’ll consider it settled.”

Sir Lucius lighted a fresh cigar and rose.  His whole manner had changed; he chuckled softly, and his smile was pleasant to see.

“I have something to show you, my boy,” he said.  “It is the richest find that ever came my way.  Ha, ha! not many collectors have ever been so fortunate.  I know where to pry about on the Continent, and I have made good use of my holidays.  I sent home a couple of boxes filled with rare bargains; but this one—­”

“You will be rousing the envy of the South Kensington Museum if you keep on,” Nevill interrupted, gaily; he was in high spirits because the recent disagreeable topic had been shelved indefinitely.  “What is it?” he added.

“I’ll show you in a moment, my boy.  It will open your eyes when you see it.  You will agree that I am a lucky dog.  By gad, what a stir it will cause in art circles!”

Sir Lucius crossed the room, and from behind a trunk he took a flat leather case.  He unlocked and opened it, his back screening the operation, and when he turned around he held in one hand a canvas, unframed, about twenty inches square; the rich coloring and the outlines of a massive head were brought out by the gaslight.

“What do you think of that?” he cried.

Nevill approached and stared at it.  His eyes were dilated, his lips parted, and the color was half-driven from his cheeks, as if by a sudden shock.  He had expected to see a bit of Saracenic armor, made in Birmingham, or a cleverly forged Corot.  But this—­

“I don’t wonder you are surprised,” exclaimed Sir Lucius.  “Congratulate me, my dear boy.”

“Where did you get it?” Nevill asked, sharply.

“In Munich—­in a wretched, squalid by-street of the town, with as many smells as Cologne.  I found the place when I was poking about one afternoon—­a dingy little shop kept by a Jew who marvelously resembled Cruikshank’s Fagin.  He resurrected this picture from a rusty old safe, and I saw its value at once.  It had been in his possession for several years, he told me; he had taken it in payment of a debt.  The Jew was pretty keen on it—­he knew whose work it was—­but in the end I got it for eleven hundred pounds.  You know what it is?”