“No bridge,” Sir James said emphatically. “I am tired of the tyranny of it. I wonder that you should make such a suggestion, Ravenspur, seeing how you detest the commonplace. But, at any rate, I will have another of those excellent cigarettes of yours.”
“It shall be just as you please, my friends,” Ravenspur said wearily. “Now let us go and have a coffee in the studio. It is much cooler there, and there is more space to breathe.”
The suggestion was received with general approval, and a move was immediately made in the direction of the studio. The apartment lay at the end of a long corridor, which cut it off from the rest of the house, the studio being in reality a huge garden room, which Ravenspur had built for reasons of privacy. He took a latchkey from his pocket and opened the door.
“I always keep this place locked,” he explained. “Some years ago my three Academy pictures were stolen just as they were finished, and since then I have taken no risk. The annoying part of the whole thing was that one of the missing pictures was the best thing I ever did. What became of it is a mystery.”
“I remember the picture perfectly well,” one of the guests remarked. “It was the study of a woman. Do you recollect my coming in one night and you asked me my opinion of it?”
“I think I can remember it,” Ravenspur said.
“Well, it was a superb piece of work,” the first speaker went on; “anything more fascinating than the woman’s face I don’t recollect seeing. I don’t know who your model was, Ravenspur, but you had a rare find in her.”
“I had no model,” Ravenspur explained. “The face was more or less an ideal one—composite, if you like, but resembling nobody in particular. However, the thing was a great loss to me, and I have never ceased to regret it. That is why I always keep this place locked up; even when the room is cleaned out, I am always present to see that nothing is disturbed. It is a whim of mine.”
As he spoke Ravenspur switched on the electric lights, until the whole of the beautiful apartment glowed to the illumination of the shaded lamps. The studio itself was circular in shape, and finished in a great dome of stained glass. The floor was littered with rare old Persian carpets, and lounges from all parts of the world were dotted about here and there. Round the walls was an almost unique collection of armour. From the centre of the floor rose a fine acacia tree, the vivid green foliage of which seemed to suffer nothing from being cut off from the outer light and air. Altogether the place was quite unique in its way, and striking evidence of Ravenspur’s originality and good taste. On little tables here and there were hundreds of photographs, most of them signed, testifying to the great popularity which Ravenspur enjoyed amongst all classes of society.
“You will have to leave these to the Nation,” a guest laughed. “What a cosmopolitan gallery it is—a prince on the one side, and a prominent socialist on the other! Yet, after all, photographs are very commonplace things. You might look over a thousand before your fancy is taken by a face like this.”
As he spoke the guest took up a portrait from one of the tables, and held it out at arm’s length, so that the light fell upon the features. Unlike the rest, the photograph was not framed, and, judging from the edges, it had had a certain amount of rough usage in its time. As to the picture itself, it presented the features of a young and beautiful girl, with a great cloud of hair hanging over her shoulders. There was something almost tragic in the dark eyes; they seemed to tell a story all their own.
“A beautiful face,” the guest went on. “The sort of face that a poet would weave an epic around. I don’t want to be impertinent, Ravenspur, but I should like to know who she is.”
“Where did you get that from?” Ravenspur asked. His voice sounded hard and cold, so that the man with the photograph in his hand turned in some surprise. “Where did you find it?”
“My dear fellow, I took it up off this table, as you might have done. Of course, it is no business of mine, and I am sorry if any careless words I have spoken—”
“The apology is mine,” Ravenspur put in quickly. “I was annoyed, just for the moment, to think that that portrait should have been left about. I could have sworn that I had locked it carefully away in a safe. You are perfectly right, my dear Seymour, there is a tragedy behind that charming face. But you will quite understand that I cannot discuss the matter with anybody.”
“Oh, quite,” the offending guest said hastily. “Still, it is a most lovely face. Now who does it remind me of?”
“The likeness is plain enough,” Seton put in. “Why, it is the very image of our host’s young ward, Miss Vera Rayne. Is there any relationship between them, Ravenspur?”
“Why, so it is!” Walter Lance cried. “Who can she be, uncle?”
Ravenspur had crossed the studio in the direction of a safe let into the wall. He placed his hand in one of the little pigeon holes there, as if seeking for something. Apparently he was unsuccessful in his search, for he shook his head doubtfully.
“Not there,” Ravenspur said to himself. “Most extraordinary lapse of memory on my part. Of course, I must have taken that photograph from the safe when I was looking for something else, and—”
The speaker broke off abruptly. He slammed the door of the safe behind him, and returned to his guests. But the light had gone out of
