“Then you don’t want to know anything about Fitzjohn Square?” Stevens asked. “I can tell you a thing or two.”
“I think that will keep for the present,” said Lance. “Good night, and remember that silence is your policy.”
Stevens grinned and nodded as he tucked the five-pound note into his waistcoat pocket. His recent visitors went off together in the direction of Venables’ rooms.
“That was a brilliant inspiration of yours,” the latter said, presently. “Now, what on earth put it into your head to ask if that man Valdo had any connection with the stolen pictures? To my mind, your question was almost an inspiration.”
“Well, hardly that,” Lance proceeded to explain. “But, first of all, let me tell you the events which led up to our discovery tonight. I think you ought to know. I am quite sure that the secret is safe in your hands. Now listen, carefully.”
Venables listened carefully enough to Walter’s extraordinary story of the strange photograph, and of the mysterious attack on Lord Ravenspur in his studio, and the subsequent discovery of the yellow handbill. In the light of these disclosures everything was perfectly plain to a mind so astute as that of Venables. He shook his head gravely.
“This looks like a vendetta,” he said. “You may depend upon it that Miss Vera Rayne is the unconscious cause of all the mischief. Of course, I am treading on delicate ground now, but I suppose it is just possible that Miss Rayne may be Lord Ravenspur’s daughter. We know that Ravenspur used to spend a great part of his time in Corsica, and everybody is aware of the fact that lovemaking out there is a dangerous business. It looks very much to me as if this man Valdo was working out a plan of revenge, either on his own behalf, or on behalf of some noble family, hailing from that picturesque corner of Europe. My theory is further strengthened by the mysterious way in which these things have come about. See how anxious your uncle is to keep everything out of the hands of the police. I feel quite sure now that the death of Louis Delahay is all part of the same drama. It wouldn’t be a bad plan to mention Luigi Silva’s name to your uncle, and ask him if he has ever heard of the man before.”
“That is a good idea,” Walter exclaimed. “I’ll ask my uncle the question before I go to bed tonight.”
XIV
Retrospection
Most of the lights in the houses in Park Lane were out when Walter reached his uncle’s residence. But as he entered the hall he could see that the studio was still ablaze. The door was closed, but a thin shaft of light penetrated from beneath. As Walter tried the door he found to his surprise that it was locked. With some feeling of apprehension he called to his uncle, and a moment later Ravenspur turned the key. His face was pale. There was in his eyes a look which spoke of some vague fear.
“I hope I am not disturbing you,” Walter said.
“My dear boy, I am only too pleased to have a companion,” Ravenspur said eagerly. “Upon my word, my nerves are so much shaken by these terrible happenings that I am almost afraid to be alone. Sit down and have a cigarette.”
Walter took a cigarette from the silver box on a little table, nor did he fail to note the presence of a stand of spirits, which was a thing in which his uncle rarely, or never, indulged.
“I really needed a stimulant tonight,” Ravenspur said, half apologetically. “Where have you been all the evening?”
“I have been out making discoveries,” Walter said, as he threw himself down into a comfortable armchair, “and one of my discoveries has been really remarkable. To be perfectly candid, Venables and myself have been doing a little private detective business together. Venables was by no means satisfied that that fellow Stevens had told all he knew at the inquest on poor Delahay, so we hunted Mr. Stevens up, and finally ran him to earth in his dingy lodgings.”
“And did he give you any valuable information?” Ravenspur asked eagerly. “Was it worth your while?”
“Indeed, it was, as you will see for yourself, sir. As soon as ever we got into the room I was struck by a picture there. One does not usually find great works of art in a bed-sitting room at five shillings a week. And when you see a picture like that, worth a couple of thousand pounds at least, it naturally arouses your curiosity. And when, on the top of that, the picture is perfectly familiar to you, why, my dear uncle—”
“You mean you had seen the picture before? Where?”
“In this very studio; you painted it here, sir. It is one of the three pictures which were stolen from you some time ago. Oh, you need not shake your head, uncle. I assure you that I have not made the slightest mistake. I leave you to guess which of the three pictures it was that I saw in that dreary bed-sitting room.”
“I think I can tell you,” Ravenspur groaned. “It was the fancy portrait. Some instinct tells me so.”
“You are quite right, sir,” Walter went on. “It was the portrait, surely enough. But it did not belong to Stevens, as you will probably have guessed by this time. It had been left in his care by an Italian friend, who gave a very plausible reason for being in possession of so valuable a work. I understand that this Italian’s name was Luigi Silva. Have you heard of him?”
Lord Ravenspur rose from his chair, and walked agitatedly up and down the studio. It was some little time before he spoke, and then his words came slowly and painfully.
“I see you know more than I had expected,” he said.
