“Catch him before he goes in there,” Venables whispered hurriedly. “If the fellow has any more to drink he will be perfectly useless to us for the rest of the evening.”
Stevens turned suspiciously as Walter spoke to him.
“I think your name is Stevens,” the latter said. “My friend here is a journalist and is greatly interested in the Fitzjohn Square mystery. We have been reading your evidence of this morning, and have come to the conclusion that you may be able to afford us some useful information. If you will answer a few questions we will make it worth your while.”
“To the extent of a couple of sovereigns,” Venables put in.
“Then I am your man,” Stevens exclaimed with alacrity. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind coming round as far as my rooms. I have got a pretty poor memory for things, so I always jot everything down in my diary. I put everything down pretty well, because you never know what information is likely to be useful. I once made fifty pounds out of the simple fact that I saw a footman reading some postcards he was posting. Since then I have neglected no trifles.”
“What we want,” Walter explained, “is all you can tell us about Mr. Louis Delahay. You know him very well by sight, and you must be acquainted with some of his habits.”
Stevens laughed knowingly, and nodded his head.
“I could open your eyes about a few of them in that neighbourhood,” he said. “I haven’t been loafing about Fitzjohn Square all these months for nothing. If I were a blackmailer, which I am not, I could live on the fat of the land. That is too dangerous a game to play, and I prefer to get along as I am.”
The man was evidently in a condition when he was past concealing anything. He chattered away glibly until his rooms were reached. Then with a flourish he opened the door and invited his visitors to enter. He apologised for the fact that he had nothing whereon to entertain the strangers, which apology was duly accepted. It was, perhaps, on the whole, a fortunate thing that Stevens’ cellar was empty. He ushered his companions into a grimy room, stuffy from want of air, and reeking with the odour of stale tobacco smoke.
“You will excuse me for a moment,” he said politely. “I will go into my bedroom and get my diary. I suppose pretty well all you want to know has happened quite lately.”
“It is the last six months with which we are chiefly concerned,” Walter explained. “Before that does not matter.”
Stevens turned away and closed the door behind him. He was gone some little time, so that his visitors had ample opportunity to take stock of their surroundings. There was nothing in the place of any value except a small circular picture in a handsome frame, depicting a beautiful face, which was evidently the work of some artist of repute. The painting was so glaringly out of place that it immediately attracted Venables’ attention.
“How did that get here?” he asked.
“My word, you may well ask that,” Walter cried in surprise. “Here is another amazing discovery! You remember my uncle being robbed of some pictures a few years ago, one of which he declared was the best thing he had ever done?”
“You don’t mean to say,” Venables exclaimed, “that, that—”
“Indeed, I do,” Walter said under his breath. “I declare to you that the painting hanging up there is the one which my uncle always considered his masterpiece.”
XIII
A Striking Likness
Venables regarded the painting with deep interest. All his journalistic instincts were now aroused. It appeared to him that he was on the eve of tapping a perfect gold mine of sensational “copy.”
“Now are you quite sure you are not making a mistake?” he asked. “You have not been misled by some chance likeness, because this is rather an important matter for me. My people expect smartness, but they have a rooted objection to mistakes.”
“I tell you there is no mistake here,” Walter Lance said definitely. “I am prepared to swear that that portrait was painted by my uncle. Of course, you remember the sensation there was at the time when the pictures were stolen. They vanished from the studio in the most mysterious fashion. Two of them were of comparative unimportance, but yonder work my uncle reckons to be the best thing he has ever done. And I quite agree with him.”
“A portrait, I suppose?” Venables asked.
“Well, my uncle always denies it. He says the face is more or less a fancy one. And while he is prepared to admit that it is coloured by recollection, he says it is not intended for anybody in particular. But I can see a likeness there.”
“Of course you can, and a very strong one, too,” Venables exclaimed. “Do you mean to tell me that your uncle cannot see that that picture is Miss Vera Rayne?”
“That is the point I have put to him more than once. He says he can’t see it at all. And there are others who share the same opinion. On the other hand, there are certain friends of ours who take the same view of it as I do myself.”
“And they are right,” Venables said vigorously. “My
