“Which is absurd,” he said aloud.
“What is absurd?” asked Knebworth, who had come into the room unnoticed.
“I also wondered what you were thinking,” smiled old Mr. Longvale, who had been watching the young man in silence.
“I—er—well, I was thinking of the portrait.” Michael turned and indicated the picture above the fireplace, and in a sense he spoke the truth, for the thread of that thought had run through all others. “The face seemed familiar,” he said, “which is absurd, because it is obviously an old painting.”
Mr. Longvale lit two candles and carried one to the portrait. Again Michael looked, and again the majesty of the face impressed him.
“That is my great-great-uncle, Charles Henry,” said old Mr. Longvale with pride. “Or, as we call him affectionately in our family, the Great Monsieur.”
Michael’s face was half-turned toward the window as the old man spoke. … Suddenly the room seemed to spin before his eyes. Jack Knebworth saw his face go white and caught him by the arm.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Michael unsteadily.
Knebworth was staring past him at the window.
“What was that?” he said.
With the exception of the illumination from the two candles and the faint dusk light that came from the garden, the room was in darkness.
“Did you see it?” he asked, and ran to the window, staring out.
“What was it?” asked old Mr. Longvale, joining him.
“I could have sworn I saw a head in the window. Did you see it, Brixan?”
“I saw something,” said Michael unsteadily. “Do you mind if I go out into the garden?”
“I hoped you saw it. It looked like a monkey’s head to me.”
Michael nodded. He walked down the flagged passage into the garden, and, as he did so, slipped a Browning from his hip, pressed down the safety-catch, and dropped the pistol into his jacket pocket.
He disappeared, and five minutes later Knebworth saw him pacing the garden path, and went out to him.
“Did you see anything?”
“Nothing in the garden. You must have been mistaken.”
“But didn’t you see him?”
Michael hesitated.
“I thought I saw something,” he said with an assumption of carelessness. “When are you going to shoot those night pictures of yours?”
“You saw something, Brixan—was it a face?”
Mike Brixan nodded.
X
The Open Window
The dynamo wagon was humming as he walked down the garden path, and with a hiss and a splutter from the arcs, the front of the cottage was suddenly illuminated by their fierce light. Outside on the road a motorist had pulled up to look upon the unusual spectacle.
“What is happening?” he asked curiously.
“They’re taking a picture,” said Michael.
“Oh, is that what it is? I suppose it is one of Knebworth’s outfits?”
“Where are you going?” demanded Michael suddenly. “Forgive my asking you, but if you’re heading for Chichester you can render me a very great service if you give me a lift.”
“Jump in,” said the man. “I’m going to Petworth, but it will not be much out of my way to take you into the city.”
Until they came to the town he plied Michael with questions betraying that universal inquisitiveness which picture-making invariably incites amongst the uninitiated.
Michael got down near the marketplace and made his way to the house of a man he knew, a former master at his old school, now settled down in Chichester, who had, amongst other possessions, an excellent library. Declining his host’s pressing invitation to dinner, Michael stated his needs, and the old master laughed.
“I can’t remember that you were much of a student in my days, Michael,” he said, “but you may have the run of the library. Is it some line of Virgil that escapes you? I may be able to save you a hunt.”
“It’s not Virgil, maestro,” smiled Michael. “Something infinitely more full-blooded!”
He was in the library for twenty minutes, and when he emerged there was a light of triumph in his eye.
“I’m going to use your telephone if I may,” he said, and he got London without delay.
For ten minutes he was speaking with Scotland Yard, and, when he had finished, he went into the dining-room where the master, who was a bachelor, was eating his solitary dinner.
“You can render me one more service, mentor of my youth,” he said. “Have you in this abode of peace an automatic pistol that throws a heavier shell than this?”
And he put his own on the table. Michael knew Mr. Scott had been an officer of the Territorial Army, and incidentally an instructor of the Officers’ Training Corps, so that his request was not as impossible of fulfilment as it appeared.
“Yes, I can give you a heavier one than that. What are you shooting—elephants?”
“Something a trifle more dangerous,” said Michael.
“Curiosity was never a weakness of mine,” said the master, and went out to return with a Browning of heavy calibre and a box of cartridges.
They spent five minutes cleaning the pistol, which had not been in use for some time, and, with his new weapon weighing down his jacket pocket, Mike took his leave, carrying a lighter heart and a clearer understanding than he had enjoyed when he had arrived at the house.
He hired a car from a local garage and drove back to the Dower House, dismissing the car just short of his destination. Jack Knebworth had not even noticed that he had disappeared. But old Mr. Longvale, wearing a coat with many capes, and a soft silk cap from which dangled a long tassel, came to him almost as soon as he entered the garden.
“May I speak to you, Mr. Brixan?” he said in a low voice, and they went into the house together. “Do you remember Mr. Knebworth was very perturbed because he thought he saw somebody peering in at the window—something with a monkey’s head?”
Michael nodded.
“Well, it is a most curious fact,” said the old gentleman impressively,
