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Page 35
"By Jove, I have it!" cried Jack. "Here is the clew! Look, Alphonse! The
scoundrel, whoever he was, took an impression in wax on his first visit.
He had a key made from it, came back later at night, and stole the
picture. It was a cunning piece of work."
"Monsieur is right," said Alphonse. "A thief has robbed him. You suspect
nobody?"
"Not a soul," replied Jack.
Though the shreds of wax showed how the studio had been entered, he was
no nearer the solution of the mystery than before. He excepted the few
trustworthy friends--only three or four--who knew that he had the
duplicate Rembrandt.
"And even in Paris there were not many who knew that I painted the
thing," he thought. "I painted it at the Hotel Netherlands, and when Von
Whele went home and left it on my hands, I locked the canvas up in an
old chest. No, I can't suspect any of my friends, past or present. But
then who--By Jove! I have overlooked one point! The man who stole the
picture knew just where it was kept, and he went straight to it.
Otherwise he would have rummaged the studio, and disarranged things
badly before he found what he wanted."
A light flashed on Jack--a light of inspiration, of certainty and
conviction. He remembered the visit of M. Felix Marchand, that he had
commented on the painting, and had seen it restored to its place in the
portfolio. Beyond doubt the mysterious Frenchman was the thief. Armed
with his craftily-won knowledge, provided with a duplicate key to the
studio, he had easily and safely accomplished his purpose. At what hour,
and on what night, it was impossible to say. Probably a day or two after
his first visit in the guise of a buyer.
"Monsieur must not take his loss too much to heart," said Alphonse, with
well-meant sympathy. "If he informs the police--"
"I prefer to have nothing to do with the police, thank you. You may go,
Alphonse. I shall dine in town, as usual."
When Alphonse had departed, Jack threw a sheet over the canvas on his
easel, put on a smoking jacket, lighted his pipe, and stretched himself
in an easy chair, to think about the startling discovery he had made.
The mystery presented many difficult points for his consideration. The
rogue's sole aim was to get that particular painting, and he had taken
nothing else, though he might have walked off with his pockets filled
with valuable articles. He probably expected that the robbery would not
be discovered for a long time.
But what was his object in stealing the Rembrandt? What did he hope to
do with a copy of so well-known a work of art? Was there any connection
between this crime and the one committed last night on the premises of
the Pall Mall dealers? That was extremely unlikely. It was beyond
question that Lamb and Drummond had had the original painting in their
possession, and that daring burglars had taken it.
"I could see light in the matter," Jack reflected, "if the fellow had
visited my place after hearing of the robbery at Lamb and Drummond's.
In that case, his scheme would have been to get the duplicate
canvas--granted that he knew of its existence and whereabouts--and trade
it off for the original. But he could not have known until early this
morning, and he did not come then. I was sleeping here, and would have
heard him. No, my picture must have been taken at least a week or ten
days ago."
Jack smoked two more pipes, and the dark-brown Latakia tobacco from
Oriental shores, stealing insidiously to his brain, brought him an idea.
"It is chimeric and improbable," he concluded, "but it is the most likely
theory I have struck yet. Was my Frenchman the same chap who robbed Lamb
and Drummond? Did he or his confederates steal both paintings, knowing
them to be as like as two peas, with the intention of disposing of each
as the original, and thus killing two birds with one stone? By Jove, I
believe I've hit it! But, no, it is unlikely. Can I be right? I'll
reserve my opinion, anyway, until I have written to Paris to ascertain
if there is such a person as M. Felix Marchand, of the Pare Monceaux. If
there is _not_, then I will interview Lamb and Drummond, and confide the
whole story to them."
He decided to write the letter at once, but before he could reach his
desk there was a sharp rap on the door. He opened it, and saw a tall,
well-dressed gentleman, with a tawny beard and mustache, who bowed
coldly and silently, and held out a card. Jack took it and read the
name. His visitor was Stephen Foster.
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