In Friendship's Guise by Wm. Murray Graydon

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"I can't be harsh with her," Stephen Foster answered. "I am more
inclined to pity than anger."

Under the circumstances, now that he knew how far matters had gone
with the woman he loved and his rival, Victor Nevill was curiously
unconcerned and unmoved, at least outwardly. It is true that he did not
despair of success, strong as were the odds against him. There was a
hard and evil expression on his face, which melted at times into a
cunning smile of satisfaction, as he walked down Wardour street.

"I am on the right scent, and the game will soon be in my hands," he
reflected. "In another week I ought to be able to put an effectual spoke
in Jack Vernon's wheel. It will be a blow for Madge, but she will forget
him presently, and then I will commence to play my cards. I won't
fail--I'm determined to make her my wife. Shall I let Foster into the
scheme? I think not. Better let things take their course, and keep him
in ignorance of the fact that I had a hand in the revelation, 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 the duplicate!" he muttered. "I was going to
send it to Von Whele's executors, but it is worth keeping now, as a
curiosity. It will be an attraction to the chaps who come to see me.
I hope it won't get me into trouble. It is so deucedly like the original
that I might be accused of stealing it from the premises of Lamb and
Drummond."

He crossed the studio, knelt down by the couch and pulled the drapery
aside, and drew out the half-dozen of bulging portfolios; they had not
been disturbed since the visit of his French customer, M. Felix
Marchand. He opened the one in which he knew he had seen the Rembrandt
on that occasion, but he failed to find it, though he turned over the
sketches singly. He examined them again, with increasing wonder, and
then went carefully through the other portfolios. The search was
fruitless. The copy of Martin Von Whele's Rembrandt was gone!

"What can it mean?" thought Jack. "I distinctly remember putting the
canvas back in the biggest portfolio--I could swear to that. I have not
touched them since. Yet the picture is gone--missing--stolen. Yes,
stolen! What else? By Jove, it's a queer coincidence that both the
original and the copy should disappear simultaneously!"

He struck a match and looked beneath the couch; there was nothing there.
He ransacked about the studio for a few minutes, and then summoned his
servant.

"Was there a stranger here at any time during the last two weeks?" he
asked; "any person whom you did not know?"

Alphonse shook his head decidedly.

"There was no one, monsieur. I am certain of that."

"And my friends--"

"On such occasions as monsieur's friends called while he was out, I was
in the studio as long as they remained."

"Yes, of course. When did you sweep under this couch?"

"About three weeks ago, monsieur," was the hesitating reply.

"No less than that?"

"No less, monsieur."

Jack was satisfied. There was no room for suspicion, he told himself.
The man's word was to be relied upon. But by what agency, then, had the
canvas disappeared? How could a thief break into the studio without
leaving some trace of his visit, in the shape of a broken window or a
forced lock? There had been plenty of opportunities, it is true--nights
when Alphonse had been at home and Jack in town.

"Has monsieur lost something?"

"Yes, a large painting has been stolen," Jack replied.

He went to the door and examined the lock from the outside, by the aid
of matches, though with no hope of finding anything. But a surprising
and ominous discovery rewarded him at once. In and around the key-hole,
sticking to it, were some minute fragments of wax.

"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.

CHAPTER XII.

A COWARDLY COMMUNICATION.

"You doubtless know why I have come," said Stephen Foster, as he stepped
into the room and closed the door. He looked penetratingly at the young
man through a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses.

"I think I do, sir," Jack replied, "and I am very glad to see you.
I rather expected a visit from you. Take a seat, please."

"Thank you--I prefer to stand. My business is very brief, Mr. Vernon.
It is quite unnecessary to enter into discussions or explanations. You
are aware, of course, that my daughter has told me everything. Do you
consider that you have acted honorably--that your conduct has been what
a gentleman's should be?"

"It has, sir. Appearances are a little against me, I admit, but I have
a clear conscience, Mr. Foster. I love your daughter with all my heart,
and I have no higher aim in life than to make her my wife. I am heartily
glad of the opportunity to tell you this to your face. Believe me, it
was not from choice that I stooped to clandestine meetings."

Stephen Foster laughed contemptuously.

"You took an unfair advantage of an innocent and trustful girl," he
said. "My daughter is young, ignorant of the world, and she does not
know her own mind. You have cast a spell over her, as it were. She
defies me--she refuses to obey my orders. You have estranged us, Mr.
Vernon, and brought a cloud into what was a happy home. I appeal to you,
in a father's name, to release the girl from the ill-advised and foolish
promises she made you."

"I cannot give her up, sir. I fear you do not understand how much
Madge--Miss Foster--is to me. If words could prove my sincerity, my
devotion to her--"

"Her marriage to you is out of the question."

"May I ask why?"

"My reasons do not concern you."

"But at least I am entitled to some explanation--it is no more than my
due," said Jack. "Why do you object to me as a son-in-law? I am not a
rake or an idler--you can easily satisfy yourself of my character, if
you like. I am not a rich man, but I can offer your daughter a
comfortable, even a luxurious, home. I have succeeded in my profession,
and in another year I shall doubtless be making an income of two or
three thousand pounds."

"I am ready to admit all that," was Stephen Foster's curt reply. "It
does not alter the position, however."

"I suppose you have higher views for your daughter!" Jack cried,
bitterly.

"Yes, I have," Stephen Foster admitted, after a moment's hesitation. "I
don't mind saying as much. But this interview has already lasted longer
than I intended it should, Mr. Vernon. Have I appealed to you in vain?"

"With all proper respect to you, sir, I can answer you in only one way,"
Jack replied, firmly. "Your daughter returns my affection, and she is a
woman in ten thousand--a woman for whose love one might well count the
world well lost. I cannot, I will not, give her up."

The young artist's declaration, strange to say, brought no angry
response from Stephen Foster. For an instant the hard lines on his
face melted away, and there was a gleam of something closely akin to
admiration in his eyes; he actually made a half-movement to hold out
his hand, but as quickly withdrew it. He turned and opened the door.

"Is this your last word?" he asked from the threshold.

"That rests with you. I cannot retreat from my position. Should I
renounce your daughter, after winning her heart, I would deserve to
be called--"

"Very well, sir," interrupted Stephen Foster. "I shall know what
measures to take in the future. Forewarned is forearmed. And, by the
way, to save you the trouble of hanging about Strand-on-the-Green, I
may tell you that I have sent my daughter out of town on a visit."

With that parting shot he went down the short flight of steps, and
passed into the street. Jack closed the door savagely, and began to
walk up and down the studio, as restless as a caged beast.

"Here's a nice mess!" he reflected. "Angry parent, obdurate daughter,
and all that sort of thing. But I rather fancy I scored--he gained
nothing by his visit, and after he thinks the matter over he will
probably take a more sensible view of it. His appeal to me shows clearly
that he failed to make Madge yield."

On the whole, after further consideration, Jack concluded that there was
no ground for despondency. His spirits rose as he recalled the girl's
earnest and loving promises, her assurances of eternal fidelity.

"My darling will be true to me, come what may," he thought. "No amount
of persuasion or threats can induce her to give me up, and in the end,
when Stephen Foster is convinced of that, he will make the best of it
and withdraw his objections. If Madge has been sent out of town, she
went against her will. But, of course, she will manage to let me hear
from her."

Jack sat down to his desk, intending to write a letter to a friend in
Paris, a well-to-do artist who lived in the neighborhood of the Pare
Monceaux. He held his pen undecidedly for a moment, and then leaned back
in his chair with a puzzled countenance.

"By Jove, it's queer," he muttered; "but Stephen Foster's voice was
awfully familiar. We never met before, and I never laid eyes on the man,
so far as I can remember. I am mistaken. It is only a fancy. No--I have
it! He suggests M. Felix Marchand--there is something in common in their
speech, though it is very slight. What an odd coincidence!"

That it could possibly be more than a coincidence did not occur to Jack,
and he would have laughed the idea to scorn. He dismissed the matter
from his mind, wrote and posted the letter, and then went off to dine by
appointment with Victor Nevill.

There was no word from Madge the next day, and it is to be feared that
Jack's work suffered in consequence, and that Alphonse found him
slightly irritable. But on the following morning a letter came in the
well-known handwriting. It was very brief. The girl was _not_ out of
town, but was stopping near Regent's Park with an elderly maternal aunt
who lived in Portland Terrace, and was addicted to the companionship of
cockatoos and cats, not to speak of a brace of overfed, half-blind pugs.

"I am in exile," the letter concluded, "and the dragon is a watchful
jailer. But she sleeps in the afternoon, and at three o'clock to-morrow
I will be inside the Charles street gate."

"To-morrow" meant to-day, and until lunch time Jack's brush flew
energetically over the canvas. He was at the trysting-place at the
appointed hour, and Madge was there waiting for him, so ravishingly
dressed that he could scarcely resist the temptation to gather her in
his arms. As they strolled through the park he rather gloomily described
his visit from Stephen Foster, but the girl's half-smiling, half-tearful
look of affection reassured him.

"You foolish boy!" she said, chidingly. "As if there were any danger of
your losing me. Why, I wouldn't give you up if you wanted me to! I think
you got the best of father, dear. He understands now, and by and by he
will relent. He is a good sort, really, and you will like him when you
know him better."

"We made a bad beginning," Jack said, ruefully.

They had reached the lake by this time, and they went on to a bench in
a shady and sequestered spot. Madge's high spirits seemed suddenly to
desert her, and she looked pensively across the glimmering water to the
tall mansions of Hanover Terrace.

"Madge, something troubles you," her lover said, anxiously.

"Yes, Jack. I--I received an anonymous letter at noon. Mrs. Sedgewick
forwarded it to me. Oh, it is shameful to speak of it--"

"An anonymous letter? There is nothing more vile or cowardly! Did it
concern me?"

"Yes."

"And spoke badly of me?"

"It didn't say anything good."

"I wish I had the scoundrel by the throat! You have no idea who sent
it?"

"None, dear. It was in a strange, scrawly hand, and was postmarked
Paddington."

"It is a mystery I am powerless to explain," Jack said dismally. "To
the best of my knowledge I have not an enemy in the world. I can recall
no one who would wish to do me an ill turn. And the writer lied foully
if he gave me a bad character, Madge. Where is the letter?"

"I destroyed it at once. I hated to see it, to touch it."

"I am sorry you did that. It might have contained some clew. Tell me
all, Madge. Surely, darling, you don't believe--"

"Jack, how can you think so?" She glanced up at him with a tender,
trustful, and yet half-distressed look in her eyes. "Forgive me, dear.
It is not that I doubt you, but--but I must ask you one question. You
are a free man? There is no tie that could forbid you to marry me?"

"I am a free man," Jack answered her solemnly. "Put such evil thoughts
out of your mind, my darling. By the passionate love I feel for you, by
my own honor, I swear that I have an honest man's right to make you
mine. But, as I told you before, I had a reckless past--"

"I don't want to hear about it," Madge interrupted.

No one was within sight or sound, so she put her arms about his neck and
lifted her lips to his.

"Jack, you have made me so happy," she whispered. "I will forget that
false, wicked letter. I love you, love you, dear. And I will be your
wife whenever you wish--"

Her voice broke, and he kissed a tear from her burning cheek.

"My Madge!" he said, softly. "Do you care so much for me?"

Half an hour later they parted at the Hanover Gate. As he turned his
steps homeward, the cowardly anonymous letter lay heavily on his mind.
Who could have written it, and what did it contain? He more than
suspected that it referred to his youthful marriage with Diane Merode.

When he reached the studio he found on his desk a letter bearing a
French stamp. He opened it curiously.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE TEMPTER.

"Just as I suspected!" Jack exclaimed. "I knew I couldn't be mistaken.
I have spotted the thief. The queer chap who bought my water-color
sketches is the same who carried off the Rembrandt. How cleverly he
worked his little game! But there my information stops, and I doubt
if the police could make much out of it."

The letter, which he had crumpled excitedly in his hand after reading
it, was written in French; freely translated it ran as follows:

"No. 15, BOULEVARD DE COURCELLES, PARIS.

"My Dear Jack--I was rejoiced to hear from you, after so long a silence,
and it gave me sincere pleasure to look into the matter of which you
spoke. But I fear that my answers must be in the negative. It is certain
that no such individual as M. Felix Marchand lives in or near the Pare
Monceaux, where I have numerous acquaintances; nor do I find the name in
the directory of Paris. Moreover, he is unknown to the dealer, Cambon, on
the Quai Voltaire, of whom I made inquiries. So the matter rests. I am
pleased to learn of your prosperity. When shall I see you once more in
Lutetia?

"With amiable sentiments I inscribe myself,

"Your old friend,

"CHARLES JACQUIN."

"I'll take the earliest opportunity of seeing Lamb and Drummond," Jack
resolved. "The affair will interest them, and it may lead to something.
But I shan't bother about it--I didn't value the picture very highly,
and the thief almost deserves to keep it for his cleverness."

During the next three days, however, Jack was too busy to carry out his
plan--at least in the mornings. Not for any consideration would he have
sacrificed his afternoons, for then he met Madge in Regent's Park, and
spent an hour or more with her, reckless of extortionate cab fares from
Ravenscourt Park to the neighborhood of Portland Terrace. On the second
night, dining in town, he met Victor Nevill, and had a long chat with
him, the two going to a music-hall afterward. Jack was discreetly silent
about his love affair, nor did he or Nevill refer to the little incident
near Richmond Hill.

At the end of the week Jack's opportunity came. He had finished some
work on which he had been employed for several days, and soon after
breakfast, putting on a frock coat and a top hat he went off to town. He
presented a card at Lamb and Drummond's, and the senior partner of the
firm, who knew him well by reputation, invited him into his private
office. On learning his visitor's errand, Mr. Lamb evinced a keen
interest in the subject. He listened attentively to the story, and asked
various questions.

"Here is the letter from my friend in Paris," Jack concluded. "You will
understand its import. It shows conclusively that M. Marchand came to my
studio under a false name, and leaves no room for doubt that it was he
who stole my duplicate Rembrandt."

"I agree with you, Mr. Vernon. It is a puzzling affair, and I confess I
don't know what to make of it. But it is exceedingly interesting, and I
am very glad that you have confided in me. I think it will be best if
we keep our knowledge strictly to ourselves for the present."

"By all means."

"I except the detectives who are working on the case."

"Yes, of course. They are the proper persons to utilize the
information," assented Jack. "It should not be made public."

"I never knew that a copy of Von Whele's picture was in existence," said
Mr. Lamb. "I need hardly ask if it is a faithful one."

"I am afraid it is," Jack replied, smiling. "I worked slowly and
carefully, and though I was a bit of an amateur in those days, I was
more than satisfied with the result. The pictures were of the same size;
and I really don't think many persons could have distinguished the one
from the other."

"Could _you_ do that now, supposing that both were before you, framed
alike, and that the duplicate was cunningly toned to look as old as the
original?"

"I should not hesitate an instant," Jack replied, "because it happens
that I took the precaution of making a slight mark in one corner of my
canvas."

"Ah, that was a clever idea--very shrewd of you! It may be of the
greatest importance in the future."

"You have not yet given me your opinion of the mysterious Frenchman,"
Jack went on. "Do you believe that he was concerned in both robberies?"

"Circumstances seem to point that way, Mr. Vernon, do they not? Your
picture was certainly taken before mine?"

"It was, without doubt."

"Then, what object could the Frenchman have had in stealing the
comparatively worthless duplicate, unless he counted on subsequently
getting possession of the original?"

"It sounds plausible," said Jack. "That's just my way of looking at it.
The advantage would be--"

"That the thieves would have two pictures, equally valuable to them, to
dispose of secretly," put in Mr. Lamb. "We may safely assume, then, that
our enterprising burglars are in possession of a brace of Rembrandts.
What they will do with them it is difficult to say. They will likely
make no move at present, but it is possible that they will try to
dispose of them in the Continental market or in America, in which case
I have hopes that they will blunder into the hands of the police. Proper
precautions have been taken both at home and abroad."

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