My lord gave back the miniature. There was a gleam in his eye. “But why not produce a picture of myself?” he suggested.
Mr. Fontenoy, and old Mr. Clapperly looked sharply. Rensley said triumphantly:—“You make a slip there, my clever gentleman! There is no picture of you!”
My lord smiled. “No? And does my friend Mr. Fontenoy agree with that?”
Mr. Fontenoy said nothing. My lord tapped the lid of his snuffbox. “What of the sketch that was taken of me when I was eighteen?” he asked softly.
It was plain Rensley knew nothing of this; equally plain was it that my lord had impressed the two eldest people present. “It is true that there was once such a portrait, sir,” said old Mr. Clapperly. “But it exists no longer.”
“You may be right,” said my lord politely. “It is a long time since I left England. But perhaps you have not looked for it in the right place.”
“We have searched both in this house, and at Barham, sir. It is not to be found.”
“I see that I must assist you,” smiled my lord.
There was an alert look in Mr. Brent’s face. “Indeed, sir, and do you know where this likeness is to be found?”
“I hope so, Mr. Brent. But do not let us be rash. If the likeness is still where I hid it, then I can find it.”
Mr. Fontenoy lost some of his primness. Everyone was staring eagerly at my lord. “Where you hid it, sir?”
“Where I hid it,” repeated my lord. “Now I have overheard you to say, Mr. Fontenoy, that young Robert Tremaine was a romantic youth. It is very true! Years have not dulled the edge of my romantic fervour.” He laid down his snuffbox on the table before him, and his strangely compelling eyes swept the room. “They have only sharpened a brain that was always acute, gentlemen. You cannot fail to have observed a forethought in me that excites the admiration. I had it even as a boy.” He smiled benignantly. “Such a contingency as the present one I dimly expected, even in those far-off days. I saw that the day might come when I might desire to prove my identity. The romantic boy, Mr. Fontenoy, hid a picture of himself in this very room, to serve as a proof if ever he should need one.”
“In this room!” ejaculated my Lord Clevedale, looking round.
“Certainly,” said my lord. “That is why I chose this room today.” He rose. “Tell me, cousin, are you a great reader?”
“No, I am not,” said Rensley curtly.
“Nor was my brother,” said his lordship. “I thought of that at the time. My father was much addicted to the works of Shakespeare but I believe he had no Latin.”
“What’s all this to do with it?” Rensley demanded uneasily.
My lord’s glance travelled to the top shelf of the books that lined the room. “Do you ever chance to take down the works of the poet Horace, cousin?”
“No, I do not, and I don’t see—”
“Nor did my brother, I am convinced,” said my lord. “I thought it was safe—wonderfully safe, and wonderfully neat. I admire my own astuteness.” He met the puzzled eyes of my Lord Clevedale. “A great pity to have no knowledge of the humanities,” he said. “It is an estimable advantage. Had you been familiar with the Odes of Horace, cousin—but you are not. But take them down now: it is never too late to begin. Over in that corner, on the top shelf you will find the first volume, elegantly bound in tooled leather, the covers clasped by wrought hasps.”
“Pray, sir, what’s your meaning?” Mr. Brent asked.
“Why, is it not plain?” said my lord. “I ask my cousin to pull the steps to that corner, and to take down the Odes of Horace. Let him open the clasps, and turn to the Fifth Ode.”
“You speak in riddles, sir.”
“But the riddle will very soon be answered, sir, if my cousin will do as I say. The first volume and the Fifth Ode. It will be most enlightening.”
Rensley went impatiently to the shelves. “Mountebank! What am I to find there?”
“The missing sketch, my dear Rensley, of course.”
“What!” Mr. Clapperly looked up. “You put it there, sir?”
“I don’t believe it!” Rensley said, and went quickly up the ladder. He found the book, and pulled it out. A moment he fumbled with the clasps. The leaves parted naturally at the Fifth Ode. Mr. Rensley stood staring down at the book.
Every head was turned his way. “Is it there?” demanded Mr. Clapperly.
“You were told of this!” Rensley burst out, and flung the book violently to the ground. A drawing fluttered across the room, and was pounced on by Mr. Fontenoy.
Instantly everyone save my lord went to peep over Mr. Fontenoy’s shoulder. “It is certainly Robert Tremaine,” Mr. Fontenoy said. He looked from it to my lord. “And there is—a likeness.”
“Why, damme, sir, the eyes and nose are exact!” cried Clevedale.
Mrs. Staines ventured to speak. “ ’Deed, sir, but you have a look of Master Robert.”
“My good Maggie, you ought to know that I am Master Robert,” said his lordship. “I perfectly remember you.”
She stared. “You do know my name, sir. But your lordship will pardon me—it is so long ago, and you’ve changed, my lord.”
“So it would appear,” said his lordship. “I said I should satisfy you, gentlemen.”
“Pardon, sir,” Mr. Brent interposed. “It seems a proof certainly. But we must not forget that you might have been told of this.”
“How?” inquired my lord. “No one but myself knew of it.”
“I am assuming, sir, for the moment, that you are not Tremaine.”
“An impertinence,” said my lord. “But I suppose I must forgive it. Pray continue. The legal mind is very wonderful.”
“And if—I only say if, sir—you are not Tremaine, you might have heard this from the man himself.”
My lord looked at him in blank astonishment. It was Clevedale who spoke. “Lord, what in the plague’s name would Tremaine tell such a secret
