agitation.

"Bless my soul!" he muttered, half audibly. "Very remarkable!"

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Jack.

"Nothing! nothing!" replied Sir Lucius, in some confusion. "So you are
Mr. Vernon?"

"That is my name, sir."

Sir Lucius pulled himself together, and thoughtfully stroked his
mustache. An awkward pause was broken by Mr. Lamb, who proceeded to
state at some length the business that had rendered Jack's presence
imperative. Sir Lucius listened with rising indignation, as the story
poignantly recalled to him his bitter experience with the Munich Jew.
Jack, seeing the ludicrous side, with difficulty repressed an
inclination to smile.

"Let me have the picture," he said. "I can settle the question at once."

Sir Lucius rose eagerly from his seat. Mr. Lamb took the canvas from
an open safe and spread it on the table. Jack bent over it, standing
between the two. He laughed as he pointed to a peculiar
brush-stroke--insignificant in the general effect--down in the lower
right-hand corner.

"There is my mark," he said, "and this is the duplicate I painted for
Martin Von Whele, nearly six years ago."

"I thought as much," exclaimed Mr. Lamb.

"Are you sure of what you are saying, young man?" asked Sir Lucius.

"Quite positive, sir," declared Jack. "I assure you that--"

"Yes, there can be no doubt about it," interrupted Mr. Lamb. "I was
pretty well satisfied from the first, but I would not trust my own
judgment, considering the poorness of my eyesight. This is the copy, and
the person who stole it from Mr. Vernon's studio disposed of it later to
the Jew in Munich, who succeeded--very naturally, I admit--in selling it
to you as the real thing, Sir Lucius."

There was a _double entendre_ about the "very naturally" which Sir
Lucius chose, rightly or wrongly, to interpret to his own disadvantage.

"Do you mean to insinuate--" he began, bridling up.

"As for the genuine Rembrandt--_my_ picture," resumed Mr. Lamb, "its
disappearance is still shrouded in mystery. It can be only a matter of
time, however, until the affair is cleared up. But that is poor
consolation for the insurance people, who owe me L10,000."

"It is well you safeguard yourself in that way," observed Jack. "I
shouldn't be surprised if your picture turned up as unexpectedly as mine
has done, and perhaps before long. But I can hardly call this my
property. Sir Lucius Chesney is out of pocket to the tune of eleven
hundred pounds--"

"D--n