ation, if it
comes off. I'm afraid it won't, though."

We must take the reader now to Ravenscourt Park, to the studio of Jack
Vernon. Early in the afternoon, while Victor Nevill was closeted with
Stephen Foster, the young artist was sitting at his easel. He had been
working since breakfast on a landscape, a commission from one of his
wealthy patrons. Things had gone unusually well with him lately. His
picture was on the line at the Academy, it had been favorably reviewed,
and he had received several offers for it. This indicated increased
fame, with a larger income, and a luxurious little home for Madge.

"Will you have your lunch now, sir?" Alphonse called from the doorway
of an inner room.

"Yes, you may fetch it," Jack replied. "I'm as hungry as a bear."

He usually took his second meal at an earlier hour, but to-day he had
gone on working, deeply interested in his subject. He put aside his
brush and palette, and seated himself at the table, on which Alphonse
had placed a couple of chops, a bottle of Bass, and half a loaf of
French bread. When he had finished, he lighted a cigarette and opened
the _Telegraph_ lazily. He had not looked at it before, and he uttered
a cry of surprise as his eyes fell on the headlines announcing the theft
of the Rembrandt. He perused the brief paragraph, and turned to his
servant.

"Go out and buy me an afternoon paper," he said.

Alphonse departed, and, having the luck to encounter a newsboy in the
street, he speedily returned with the latest edition of the _Globe_. It
contained nothing more in substance than the earlier issues, but the
full account of the mysterious robbery was there, a column long, and
with keen interest Jack read every word of it over twice.

"It's a queer case," he said to himself, "and the sort of thing
that doesn't often happen. The last sensation of the kind was the
Gainsborough, years ago. What will the thieves do with their prize?
They can't well dispose of it. It will be a waiting game. I daresay
the watchman knows more than he cares to tell. And so the picture was
insured--over-insured, too, for I don't believe it would have brought
ten thousand pounds. That's rather an interesting fact. Now, if Lamb
and Drummond were like some unscrupulous dealers that I know, instead
of being beyond reproach, there would be reason to think--"

He did not finish the mental sentence, but tossed the paper aside, and
rose suddenly to his feet.

"By Jove, I'll hang up