no longer on his
nephew--examining a strange white-winged orchid in the vase at his
elbow. Every thing suddenly seemed to have grown natural and simple
again, and Faxon found himself responding with a smile to the affable
gesture with which his host declared: "And now, Mr. Faxon, we'll dine."

III

"I wonder how I blundered into the wrong room just now; I thought you
told me to take the second door to the left," Faxon said to Frank Rainer
as they followed the older men down the gallery.

"So I did; but I probably forgot to tell you which staircase to take.
Coming from your bedroom, I ought to have said the fourth door to the
right. It's a puzzling house, because my uncle keeps adding to it from
year to year. He built this room last summer for his modern pictures."

Young Rainer, pausing to open another door, touched an electric button
which sent a circle of light about the walls of a long room hung with
canvases of the French impressionist school.

Faxon advanced, attracted by a shimmering Monet, but Rainer laid a hand
on his arm.

"He bought that last week. But come along--I'll show you all this after
dinner. Or _he_ will, rather--he loves it."

"Does he really love things?"

Rainer stared, clearly perplexed at the question. "Rather! Flowers and
pictures especially! Haven't you noticed the flowers? I suppose you
think his manner's cold; it seems so at first; but he's really awfully
keen about things."

Faxon looked quickly at the speaker. "Has your uncle a brother?"

"Brother? No--never had. He and my mother were the only ones."

"Or any relation who--who looks like him? Who might be mistaken for
him?"

"Not that I ever heard of. Does he remind you of some one?"

"Yes."

"That's queer. We'll ask him if he's got a double. Come on!"

But another picture had arrested Faxon, and some minutes elapsed before
he and his young host reached the dining-room. It was a large room,
with the same conventionally handsome furniture and delicately grouped
flowers; and Faxon's first glance showed him that only three men
were seated about the dining-table. The man who had stood behind Mr.
Lavington's chair was not present, and no seat awaited him.

When the young men entered, Mr. Grisben was speaking, and his host, who
faced the door, sat looking down at his untouched soup-plate and turning
the spoon about in his small dry hand.

"It's pretty late to call them rumours--they were devilish close to
facts when we