as a portrait
of a woman older than this. Her style of dress was more elaborate. Her
hair was dressed differently, with sort of curls at the side, and on
the top, half buried in the hair, was the imitation of a nest--a dove's
nest. Such a thing would naturally stick in a child's memory. It stuck
in mine."

"Yes--and nearly gave the game away to-night," said Colville, gulping
down the memory of those tense moments.

"That portrait--the original--you have not destroyed it?"

"Oh no. It is of some value," replied Colville, almost naively. He
felt in his pocket and produced a silver cigar case. The miniature was
wrapped in a piece of thin paper, which he unfolded. Barebone took the
painting and examined it with a little nod of recognition. His memory
had not failed after twenty years.

"Who is this lady?" he asked.

Dormer Colville hesitated.

"Do you know the history of that period?" he inquired, after a moment's
reflection. For the last hour he had been trying to decide on a course
of conduct. During the last few minutes he had been forced to change it
half a dozen times.

"Septimus Marvin, of Farlingford, is one of the greatest living
authorities on those reigns. I learnt a good deal from him," was the
answer.

"That lady is, I think, the Duchesse de Guiche."

"You think--"

"Even Marvin could not tell you for certain," replied Colville, mildly.
He did not seem to perceive a difference in Barebone's manner toward
himself. The quickest intelligence cannot follow another's mind beyond
its own depth.

"Then the inference is that my father was the illegitimate son of the
Comte d'Artois."

"Afterward Charles X., of France," supplemented Colville, significantly.

"Is that the inference?" persisted Barebone. "I should like to know your
opinion. You must have studied the question very carefully. Your opinion
should be of some interest, though--"

"Though--" echoed Colville, interrogatively, and regretted it
immediately.

"Though it is impossible to say when you speak the truth and when you
lie."

And any who doubted that there was royal blood in Loo Barebone's veins
would assuredly have been satisfied by a glance at his face at that
moment; by the sound of his quiet, judicial voice; by the sudden and
almost terrifying sense of power in his measuring eyes.

Colville turned away with an awkward laugh and gave his attention to the
logs on the hearth. Then suddenly he regained his readiness of speech.

"Lo