?"

"Ah! that is a long story," replied Marvin, looking dreamily out of
the window. "I bought it, years ago, at Farlingford. But it is a long
story."

"Then tell it, slowly. While I eat this sole a la Normande. I see you've
nearly finished yours, and I have scarcely begun."

It was a vague and disjointed enough story, as related by Septimus
Marvin. And it was the story of Loo Barebone's father. As it progressed
John Turner grew redder and redder in the face, while he drank glass
after glass of Burgundy.

"A queer story," he ejaculated, breathlessly. "Go on. And you bought
this engraving from the man himself, before he died? Did he tell you
where he got it? It is the portrait of a woman, you say."

"Portrait of a woman--yes, yes. But he did not know who she was. And I
do not know whether I gave him enough for it. Do you think I did, Jack?"

"I do not know how much you gave him, but I have no doubt that it was
too much. Where did he get it?"

"He thinks it was brought from France by his mother, or the woman
who was supposed in Farlingford to be his mother--together with other
papers, which he burnt, I believe."

"And then he died?"

"Yes--yes. He died--but he left a son."

"The devil he did! Why did you not mention that before? Where is the
son? Tell me all about him, while I see how they've served this langue
fourree, which should be eaten slowly; though it is too late to remind
you of that now. Go on. Tell me all about the son."

And before the story of Loo Barebone was half told, John Turner laid
aside his knife and fork and turned his attention to the dissection of
this ill-told tale. As the story neared its end, he glanced round the
room, to make sure that none was listening to their conversation.

"Dormer Colville," he repeated. "Does he come into it?"

"He came to Farlingford with the Marquis de Gemosac, out of pure
good-nature--because the Marquis could speak but little English. He is a
charming man. So unselfish and disinterested."

"Who? The Marquis?"

"No; Dormer Colville."

"Oh yes!" said John Turner, returning to the cold tongue. "Yes; a
charming fellow."

And he glanced again at his friend, with a queer smile. When luncheon
was finished, Turner led the way to a small smoking-room, where they
would be alone, and sent a messenger to fetch Septimus Marvin's bag from
downstairs.

"We will have a look at your precious engraving," he said, "while we
smoke a cigar. It is, I suppose, a relic