-lights, have been degraded
to the base uses of a tenement population. Only the quaint chapel of
St. John has survived the slow process of contamination, a single rock
rising above the sordid tide.

The coach stopped before one of the most pretentious of the old-time
houses-now, alas! one of the dirtiest and most dilapidated. We were
directed to the upper story, Indiman leading the way.

A single attic chamber, bearing the marks of the cruelest poverty, a
stove, an artist's easel, a pallet spread directly on the grimy floor,
and upon it a man in the last stage of consumption. He glanced up at
Indiman and waved his hand feebly. He tried to speak, but his voice
died away in his throat; Indiman knelt by his side to catch the words.

"It is cold--shut stove door--there's enough now to last me out."

Indiman went to the stove, where a little fire was smouldering; he shut
the door and turned on the draught. The flame leaped up instantly, the
crazy smoke-pipe rattling as it expanded under the influence of the
heat. Indiman turned again to the dying man.

"You know well enough why I have come," he said, slowly. "I have in my
possession one of your copies of the 'Red Duchess.' Tell me the truth."

There was no audible response from the bloodless lips, but the dark
eyes were full of ironic laughter. Then they closed again.

"Richmond!" said Indiman, sharply. "Richmond!"

I had been standing by the door, but now I came forward and joined
Indiman. "Gone!" he said, briefly. "Gone, and taken his secret with
him. Only, what WAS the secret?"

We tried to argue it out on the way up-town, but with only indifferent
success. Granted the premise that Richmond had actually stolen the "Red
Duchess," what were his motives in multiplying copies of the picture, a
proceeding that must infallibly end in the detection of his crime? And
the supreme question--what had finally become of the original?

My theory was simple enough. The man was mentally unbalanced, the
result of brooding over his own failure in art. He had stolen the
picture, possessed with the idea that by study of it he should discover
the secret of its power. He had made copies of the picture and sold
them in order to supply himself with the necessities of life. At the
end, knowing himself to be dying, he had caused the original to be
returned to the gallery at Petersburg, a contribution to the conscience
fund.

Indiman's argument was more subtle. "Granted," he said, "that