We had not expected to see Sir Hugh Wyville until the following Christmas, which we were to spend as his guests in Cornwall. It chanced, however, that he too was taking a Continental tour, and joined our Rhine steamer at Cologne. He was delighted to see his old schoolfellow, my uncle, and arm in arm with him paced the deck in friendly converse, talking of the old days at Eton.  
Daphne's beauty made a great impression upon the Baronet, and he inquired the reason of the sad look on her face, a look that had become habitual since that terrible night at Rivoli. So my uncle related her story to him, finishing with an account of the mysterious circumstances that had attended our stay at Rivoli, to all of which the Baronet listened with deep interest.
 
"And so," he remarked, when the tale was ended, "the enquiry held on the body of the old man led to no result?"
 
"None, so far as the discovery of the assassin was concerned. All that we learned was that the old man's name was Matteo Carito; that he was a native of Rivoli, but had been absent from the town for twenty years or more, and that he had returned to it only three days before his death. It is strange that he should have been struck down so soon after reaching his home."
 
[Pg 165]
 
"The assassin had perhaps followed him there. And so the button proved no clue?"
 
"None at all."
 
"A pity, that. And the priest you have spoken of?"
 
"Father Ignatius?"
 
"Yes. Was he questioned as to the nature of the confession made to him by the murdered man?"
 
"Yes, but naturally he refused to divulge the secrets of the confessional. He declared, however, it had no bearing on the crime, and could not in any way help towards the discovery of the murderer, and with that we had to be content. Legal procedure is carried on at Rivoli in a fashion different from what it is in England. Father Ignatius is the great man of the town, and he would be a bold magistrate who would dare to question him too closely. The reverend padre would think nothing of excommunicating him next Sunday from the altar with bell, book, and candle, and the people of Rivoli would approve, so devoted are they to him."
 
"It is certainly a mysterious business," said Sir Hugh, "and one more so never came within my experience. At any rate, let us hope your suspicions are unfounded, and that Captain Willard was not at Rivoli as you suppose."
 
"Remember, Leslie," he said a day or two later, "you are not to spend Christmas at your London house. The place and the time of the year would only serve to recall your daughter's grief on the very day when she should be most happy. You must come to the Abbey and help me to burn the Yule log. There will be more than fifty guests, so you will hardly be dull. My niece, Florrie, will be just the companion for Miss Daphne, so you must make no excuses."
 
And he parted from us at Cologne on the [Pg 166]understanding that we were to pass our Christmas-tide at Silverdale Abbey.
 
Once removed from Rivoli and its weird associations Daphne rapidly recovered her health and spirits, and we spent the summer exploring the beauties of the Rhineland.
 
When we returned to London, my first care was to obtain a copy of the Standard of July the 2nd, and I turned eagerly to the remainder of the article relating to Vasari's picture, and found the passage referring to the Anglo-Indian office to be as follows:—
 
"Mr. Vasari's explanation of his success is to the effect that he has rediscovered a secret known only to the ancient Greek artists, a statement that must be taken with a grain of salt. A few days ago a strange incident happened in connection with the picture. A gentleman in uniform—an Anglo-Indian officer, to judge by a description given of him—who had paid the fee for admission, was proceeding leisurely along the gallery, and had arrived at the room containing the masterpiece, when his further progress was barred by Vasari, who would not allow him to enter, but in an authoritative voice ordered him to withdraw, without, however, assigning any reason for this behaviour. The officer declined to withdraw, and an altercation ensued between him and the artist. When at Vasari's order the attendants prepared to remove the officer the latter drew his sword, but the timely intervention of the gendarmes prevented serious consequences. The gentleman, whose name we are unable to give, was ejected and his money returned. It is said that he intends to take legal proceedings against the artist. A curious point of law will thus be raised: Whether the proprietor of a gallery open to the public has a right, on purely personal grounds, to refuse admission[Pg 167] to whomsoever he will? In an interview with a reporter, Vasari stated that the officer in question was drunk, that he was hostilely disposed towards the artist, and that he had sworn to destroy the famous picture with his sword. On the other hand, it is alleged that the officer was quiet and sober, and that he contemplated no such act of vandalism."
 
That was all concerning the Anglo-Indian officer, and what Angelo's real reason was for withholding the picture from the eyes of this man, and why he had been desirous of concealing this part of the critique from me, were insoluble questions adding fresh elements to the atmosphere of mystery in which it seemed his delight to walk.
 
I determined to have an interview with the Italian for the purpose of obtaining a little light on the matter. I was anxious, also, to question him on another point—namely, the whereabouts of my brother. George had evidently been living in seclusion at Rivoli, and Angelo must have been aware of the fact, otherwise his words to Daphne on parting from her—"You are nearer to him now than you have been for months"—would have had no meaning. So I called at the artist's London residence, but was told by his servant that he was in some distant part of the country, engaged in the production of a picture which it was confidently affirmed would be superior even to "The Fall of C?sar."
 
Then I took a hasty trip to Paris, to the Rue de Sévres, to find, as I had expected, that the Vasari Gallery no longer existed. I visited the offices of the Temps, the Gaulois, and other newspapers, and studied whole files of journals in order to learn the details of the law-suit between Vasari and the officer, but could[Pg 168] discover no mention of it. I found on enquiry at the law courts that the case had never been brought.
 
Next I tried to discover the destination of the famous picture, and learned that it had not been disposed of at public auction, but that the sale had been effected privately between the artist and the purchaser. No one could give me the name of the latter, and so, completely baffled, I returned to England, to find that Vasari was still away from town in some distant place, of which his servant either could not or would not tell me the name.
 
December came, and on the day before Christmas Eve Daphne, her father and myself were established at Silverdale Abbey, a fine castellated building mantled all over with ivy, and embosomed within a spacious and well wooded park. There was already a goodly company of guests present, which was expected to double its number on the morrow.
 
In the temporary absence of the Baronet we were received by his niece, Florrie Wyville, and spent a delightful time as she led us through the many tapestried rooms full of curious old furniture, down carved oak staircases lighted by ecclesiastical-looking casements of stained glass, along broad halls adorned with stags' antlers and suits of armour, out on to stone terraces grey with age and dark with ivy.
 
"Isn't it a dear old place?" she exclaimed enthusiastically when our first tour of exploration was over. "I have been here only a week, and yet I believe I know more about it even than Uncle Hugh knows. It is more than six hundred years old, and was originally a nunnery."
 
"And why is it called Silverdale?" I asked.
 
"There was a silver mine here at one time. I [Pg 169]believe part of the Abbey stands over an air shaft belonging to it; and in olden days nuns who broke their vows were thrown down it."
 
"How horrible," said Daphne with a shudder.
 
"Not so horrible as walling them up alive like that poor thing in Marmion," Florrie replied, jealous for the good repute of her beloved Abbey.
 
"Does the shaft still exist?" I asked.
 
"I think so, but the passage leading to it was bricked up years ago. I lay awake last night thinking of those old days, and fancying I could hear a ghostly procession of nuns rustling along the hall and chanting—— Why, what is the matter, Miss Leslie? you look quite scared."
 
I diverted the conversation to more cheerful topics, and soon the girls were discussing what characters they should assume in the fancy dress ball to be held at Silverdale on Twelfth-night.
 
The Baronet was justly proud of his beautiful home, and when, late that night, after the retiring of the guests, we were smoking in the library, he listened with evident pleasure to my congratulations on its perfect preservation unspoiled from the middle ages.
 
"You must see the picture-gallery to-morrow," he said. "That is the real gem of the place. But as you take such an interest in the Abbey and its antiquities, this book may interest you." He found a key and unlocked a bookcase. "It is a complete history of the Abbey from its foundation to the present time. It has never been published. My brother had it drawn up by a first-rate antiquary. I haven't had time to read it properly yet. Why, how's this? The book is gone."
 
"Some other guest who takes the same interest in the Abbey that I do," I suggested, "has borrowed the book and forgotten to return it."
 
[Pg 170]
 
"Impossible," Sir Hugh replied. "This bookcase is kept locked, and I always carry the key."
 
"Was that the only copy of the book?" my uncle asked.
 
"The only copy. It was in manuscript, but the leaves were bound like an ordinary book. If the book be gone the loss is irreparable."
 
"When did you see it last?"
 
"About a month ago, I should say. Its usual place is there, third from the end on the top shelf. Whoever took it away did not wish its removal to be noticed, for he——"
 
"Or she," I murmured, thinking of Florrie's enthusiasm over the Abbey.
 
"Or she has filled up the gap with a book identical in colour and binding, so that I thought at first it was the very book. Athanasii Opera," he muttered contemptuously, scanning the title of the substituted volume. "Confound Athanasius."
 
"With all my heart, and his creed too," said my uncle cheerfully. "But I have no doubt the other, more valuable, book will turn up all right soon."
 
"I sincerely hope it will," Sir Hugh replied, scrutinising every part of the bookcase as if he thought the volume were deliberately hiding from him. "At any rate, it isn't here now," and giving up the search in disgust he walked to the fireplace and flung himself into a chair, looking exceedingly annoyed. "It looks like a case of theft, but I can't for the life of me see why a thief should choose that particular book. He would only give himself away if he tried to make money by selling it. No one in the Abbey would have taken it; people don't pick locks to get what they have only to ask for, and every one here knows I have no objection to lending my books." And for some time[Pg 171] he smoked in moody silence, uninterrupted by any remark from us.
 
"By the way," he said presently, "I shall shortly have the pleasure of introducing you to a genius. I'm waiting up for him now. He is coming by the last train."
 
"Who is the genius?" my uncle inquired with a smile.
 
"That Italian artist whose picture 'The Fall of C?sar' made such a sensation in Paris last spring."
 
I was so surprised that I knocked over a branched candlestick by my side and nearly set the tablecloth on fire.
 
"You must have heard of him," said Sir Hugh, carefully replacing the candlestick.
 
"Oh, yes, we have heard of him," said my uncle, looking at me.
 
Sir Hugh did not appear to notice the meaning way in which my uncle spoke.
 
"He is spending Christmas here," said Sir Hugh. "In fact he has been living at the Abbey for the last two months. He went to London this week to get some artistic material. He is painting a picture for me.
 
"What is the subject?" my uncle asked.
 
"I left that to him," Sir Hugh answered. "Artists naturally prefer not to be fettered in matters of that sort, and they always do best what they like best. But he calls this new picture——"
 
"'Modesta, the Christian Martyr,'" I interrupted.
 
"Yes," said Sir Hugh surprised. "How on earth did you know? I was not aware that he had told any one but me."
 
"He told me himself," I explained. "We are friends of his. At least we met him at Rivoli last [Pg 172]summer, and he told us he had a commission for a picture with leave to choose his own subject. You must be the man who gave him the commission he was referring to."
 
"So you know him?" said the Baronet regretfully. "I am disappointed. I thought I had a pleasure in store for you, and I am forestalled. Yes; that's it. 'Modesta, the Christian Martyr,' is to be the picture of the year. He stipulated that he should exhibit it before finally handing it over to me, and of course I was quite agreeable."
 
"It was politic too," my uncle remarked. "A man will take more pains over a picture that all the critics will see than over one that will go straight into a private collection."
 
"I suppose that is true," said Sir Hugh, "though Vasari is not the man to scamp his work. I have fitted up a studio for him in the Nuns' Tower, that grey tower connected with the east wing of the Abbey by a cloister. It's a lonely sort of place, but he seems to prefer it to any other room in the Abbey, and he certainly is free from interruption there."
 
"Well, I hope for your sake the picture will be a success," said my uncle, suggesting that he did not care at all how it might affect the artist's career. "Do you think it will equal his last?"
 
"I can't say. I haven't seen it." Then, noticing our surprise, Sir Hugh explained. "You see his studio is a sort of holy shrine into which only the high priest of art is allowed to enter. The door is closed to every one—even to me." The pomposity with which the good Baronet emphasised the last word was immense.
 
"Well it is contrary to his usual practice," my uncle said drily. "We haven't found him backward in talking about his work, have we, Frank?"
 
[Pg 173]
 
"I don't think modesty is a disease with him," I admitted. "Do you know whether he was as secretive about his 'Fall of C?sar' before he sprung it on an admiring world?"
 
"I believe he was. Permitted none to enter his studio till the work was finished. He claims to have rediscovered a secret known to the great artists of classical times, and does not want to reveal it to contemporary rivals. Between ourselves, I don't believe there is any mystery about it, but it suits his purpose to pretend there is. Our friend knows something about human nature, and to throw a veil of secrecy round your work while you are doing it is quite good business, provided, of course, the work is good when finished. Let me see, you were in Paris last spring. Of course you saw the great picture?"
 
"No, we haven't seen it," my uncle replied. "Have you?"
 
"Have I?" said the Baronet, looking as much astonished as if he had been asked whether he knew the alphabet. "My dear fellow, what are you talking about? Don't you know the picture is here?"
 
"Here?" was the simultaneous ejaculation of my uncle and myself.
 
"Here. In this house. In my gallery."
 
That which eludes the most painstaking search is often revealed by mere accident. Without any design on our part, we were at length within measurable distance of seeing that which we had been vainly trying to see—to wit, Angelo's famous picture.
 
"Did you buy it from the Baron?" I asked.
 
"The Baron? What Baron? I don't understand you. I saw the picture last summer in Paris, was struck with it like everybody else, and offered Angelo ￡4,000 for it."
 
[Pg 174]
 
"Which offer he accepted?" said my uncle.
 
"Which offer he accepted—after a delay of a day or two."
 
"You purchased it direct from Angelo?" said I.
 
"Direct."
 
"Strange!"
 
"What is there so strange in the transaction?"
 
"Do you know," I said, "that when we saw Angelo at Rivoli, and expressed a desire—or, to be more correct, when Daphne expressed a desire to see his picture, he told her it was impossible—he had sold it to some Spanish hidalgo."
 
"He must have been dreaming, then," returned Sir Hugh. "I was the first purchaser and the last."
 
"What could have induced him to tell such a falsehood?" I said.
 
"Do not say falsehood," replied the Baronet; "say error of memory, rather. He was thinking of some other picture, perhaps?"
 
"No, 'The Death of C?sar;' that was the work he referred to, I am certain."
 
"Perhaps he confounded me with some intending purchaser. Why he should wish to conceal the destination of his picture from you I cannot tell. But there, he's a curious fellow," muttered the Baronet thoughtfully. "Genius always is eccentric, I suppose. He will stand for hours, I am told, on the cliffs, solitary and melancholy, watching the Atlantic breakers and soliloquising like a second Manfred. If I didn't know that art was his only mistress, I should fancy he was in love."
 
"Your fancy is not far removed from the truth," I m............