The company departed for the village church; and the Baronet, my uncle, and myself, aided by the servants, whose zeal had been stimulated by the promise of a liberal reward to whomsoever should discover the picture, proceeded to search the length and breadth and depth of the Abbey. Every room, including the bedrooms of the guests, was subjected to a careful inspection; places the most unlikely to be selected as the hiding-place of the famous chef-d'?uvre were examined by keen eyes, but all in vain. We might as well have looked for the Holy Grail, said by poets to have vanished somewhere in this very neighborhood.
 
Late in the afternoon of the day—it was Christmas Eve—we stood on the terrace overlooking the undulating extent of woodland that formed the grounds of the Abbey. The sun was now low down on the horizon. Its dying splendour tinged with red hues the ivy-mantled Nuns' Tower, that rose in solitary grandeur on one side of the Abbey. The Baronet's eye was resting on this tower, and his thoughts reverted to the tenant of it.
 
"Angelo can explain the disappearance of the missing picture," he said suddenly.
 
"You think so?" returned my uncle.
 
[Pg 208]
 
"I am loath to suspect him, but I cannot help thinking that he carried it off in the night."
 
"He carried it off well in the morning, then," responded my uncle jocularly. "Who would have thought from his surprise and agitation that he himself had removed it!"
 
"His surprise and agitation were assumed, to disarm suspicion."
 
"Perhaps. But what is his motive for the removal?"
 
"From certain things you have told me, I believe he is determined that neither you nor Frank shall see his great masterpiece."
 
The Baronet's opinion was one that I had long held.
 
"Why not, in Heaven's name?" cried my amazed uncle.
 
"Ah, that is a reason best known to himself. I fancy—it seems absurd to say it—that the picture, when seen by you, will reveal something that is entirely passed over by others: something detrimental to himself, I mean—what, I cannot undertake to say."
 
"What can he have done with it?"
 
"It is inside that tower," replied the Baronet confidently.
 
"Why there? Why in existence at all? If he is so anxious, as you say, to prevent us from seeing it, the safe plan would be to destroy it altogether."
 
"That would be the course of a wise man—yes; but Angelo is a fond parent, you see; his picture is his favourite child, and he cannot bring himself to destroy it. Perhaps he intends after your departure to return it to me uninjured, concocting some cock-and-bull story as to where he found it. I trust to goodness he will do something of the kind," continued the Baronet. "So valuable a thing is no trifle to lose.[Pg 209] If I could obtain proof that he has taken it, I would certainly bring him to book before the law."
 
"Can't we search the tower?" I said; "Angelo is absent."
 
"Exactly; but he takes care to lock the door every time he leaves it."
 
"Have you no other keys that will fit the lock?"
 
"The key of that lock has peculiar wards. There is no other like it in my possession."
 
"Well, let us go to the tower," I said. "He may for once have left the door unlocked—who knows?"
 
"Not very likely, but we may try."
 
The tower, octagonal in shape, was situated at a little distance from the main body of the Abbey, to which it was joined by a covered walk consisting of a wall on one side and a row of pillars on the other. It contained but one story, lighted by a large Gothic casement twelve feet at least from the ground. Access was gained to the tower by a flight of steps surmounted by an oaken door studded with iron nails.
 
"The Nuns' Tower," I murmured, as we walked down the cloister; "how came the place to receive that name?"
 
"Tradition says that when this place was a convent, nuns who broke their vow of virginity were tried in this tower by their ecclesiastical superiors—or, if you will, inferiors—and were led hence by a subterranean passage to their doom."
 
"Which was——?"
 
"Precipitation down a deep chasm. The book I spoke of last night—a book I firmly believe to have been stolen, and not mislaid—will tell you more about those dark days than I can."
 
On reaching the foot of the steps leading to the[Pg 210] tower, we mounted them, and, having tried the door, found it locked.
 
"It would have been strange, indeed," smiled the Baronet, "if Angelo had left his studio accessible."
 
Bending down I applied my eye to the keyhole.
 
"What do you see?" asked my uncle.
 
"It's impossible to see anything," I returned. Something dark within—it may have been a folding screen, the back of a chair, any piece of furniture, in fact—standing immediately behind the keyhole, prevented me from obtaining a glimpse of the interior.
 
"A cold cell to paint in during the depth of winter," remarked my uncle. "Does he work without a fire?"
 
"Scarcely," responded the Baronet. "A servant makes up the fire every morning, and brings in coal enough to last the day; but Angelo takes good care to stand by all the time, with a curtain drawn over his easel, and his artistic paraphernalia covered by a cloth, and does not begin work till he is alone."
 
The concealment displayed by Angelo over his new work of art made me only the more curious to obtain a glimpse of the studio; so I clambered up the ivy towards the Gothic casement, and peeped through its diamond panes, to find that a curtain of violet silk had been drawn across.
 
"Upon my word," I called out, "Angelo takes precious good care that no one shall discover his art-secret—if secret he has. There is a piece of violet silk stretched across the casement!"
 
"You can't open the window and get in, I suppose?" said Sir Hugh.
 
Mounting still higher, I stepped upon the windowsill, and, holding on to a mullion by my left hand, shook the casement with my right; but the fastenings[Pg 211] were too secure to permit my forcing an entrance, so I scrambled down again.
 
"He hasn't put up that curtain exactly as a screen of concealment," remarked the Baronet, stepping backwards to take a view of it. "In this new picture of his the amphitheatre, so he tells me, is represented as being partly screened from the glare of the sun by a purple velarium. The curtain that you see up there faces the south. Angelo has no doubt been trying an experiment: studying the effect of violet-coloured rays upon the sanded floor; for he has had it sanded," the Baronet explained, "to make it resemble the pavement of an arena."
 
If Sir Hugh really believed that this was the reason why Angelo had covered up the window, he had greater simplicity than I gave him credit for.
 
As we were turning to go away, my unsatisfied curiosity induced me to take a second peep through the keyhole. An ejaculation of surprise escaped my lips, and I rose to my feet in perplexity.
 
"When I looked through the keyhole just now, there was something dark within that prevented me from seeing anything. That dark something—whatever it was—has vanished. I can now see nothing but a white surface."
 
The Baronet and my uncle, stooping down to the keyhole, satisfied themselves of the truth of the last part of my statement, and then both looked at me with a half-doubting expression.
 
"There is something white in front of the door now," said Sir Hugh. "Are you certain it was dark before?"
 
"Quite certain. There's some one inside."
 
"Can Angelo have come back?" the Baronet whispered. "You remember he said at breakfast that he[Pg 212] might finish his picture within a few hours. Is he at work now?"
 
This idea made us look rather mean. It is not nice to be caught playing the spy upon a man in his supposed absence. Only the oaken door separated us from the cell within, so that the artist, if he were there, must have overheard our suspicions of him. We all three listened with our ears pressed close to the door, but could not detect the faintest sound within.
 
"Angelo, are you here?" cried the Baronet, rapping on the door; "we have come to see how the picture is going on."
 
There was no reply, and all our words and knockings failed to evoke any.
 
"You must have made a mistake, Frank," said my uncle, as we relinquished our efforts, and turned to go away.
 
"I think not," I replied, having my doubts on the matter nevertheless.
 
"Angelo can't be painting now," remarked Sir Hugh. "This dim twilight would not permit it. And if he has been at it earlier in the day, his fire would surely have been lit; but," glancing back and pointing to a little chimney-turret on the battlemented roof of the tower, "we have seen no smoke."
 
"Yes," returned I; "but if Angelo wishes to keep his presence there a secret—and secrecy seems to be a sine qua non in all his undertakings—he won't have a fire."
 
"Well, then he'll be confoundedly clever if his chilled fingers can handle the brush with any delicacy of touch in this cold atmosphere," said the Baronet with a shiver, for the air was extremely damp and cold.
 
"Sir Hugh," said my uncle, "if you are certain[Pg 213] that the picture is concealed in this tower, why not force an entrance?"
 
"Well," replied the Baronet doubtfully, "there is just the possibility that it may not be there, which would be rather awkward; for Angelo on his return would see the broken lock, and learn that we have been playing the spy on him, which is exactly what we have been doing," added he with a cynical smile, "but there's no need for him to know it."
 
Evidently the Baronet regarded espionage very much as the ancient Spartans regarded theft. There was no dishonor in the act—the dishonor consisted in being found out.
 
"I shall tell Angelo," Sir Hugh continued, "when he returns, that as we have thoroughly examined the Abbey, including the apartments allotted to my guests, without coming upon the picture, we must, in common fairness, subject even his sacred studio to the same investigation."
 
"And supposing he refuses to submit to this?" said my uncle.
 
"Then I shall assert my authority as master of Silverdale, and order an examination of the tower. Ugh! how cold it is!" he added. "Let us get back to the library fire. I feel frozen."
 
Twilight was coming on apace, and a dim silvery mist was gradually veiling the landscape from our view as we turned to enter the Abbey.
 
My visit to the Nuns' Tower made me anxious to learn whether the artist had returned. I questioned some of the servants on this point, but none of them had seen Angelo since the morning, so I was forced to the conclusion that I had been mistaken in supposing any one to have been in the tower.
 
On repairing to the library I found my uncle and the[Pg 214] Baronet discussing the technicalities of some Parliamentary Bill of the past session, a topic that was speedily cut short by the entrance of Fruin, the butler, who carried under his arm an artist's portfolio filled with papers and sketches.
 
"What have you there, Fruin?" said the Baronet.
 
"A portfolio, Sir Hugh. I found it hidden under some leaves in one of the vases on the West Terrace."
 
"A queer hiding-place for it," remarked the Baronet, taking the portfolio and examining it. "How came it there, I wonder. Vasari's, of course. He was showing the ladies some sketches this morning before breakfast, and suddenly closed the portfolio and would not allow them to see any more. He said they must be tired of them, but Florrie declared he had shut it up because there was something he did not want her to see, and she seized the portfolio and ran off with it. I suppose she must have hidden it where you found it, Fruin. Thank you for bringing it here."
 
The butler withdrew, and the Baronet pushed the portfolio over to me.
 
"Here you are, Frank," he said, "if you are interested in Vasari's sketches."
 
"Not at all," I replied carelessly, and then a thought struck me. "Stop, though! You say Vasari would not let all of them be seen. More secrecy. What's the game this time? Let me try to find out."
 
I drew a chair to the table and began to examine the contents of the portfolio. They consisted of sketches—ink, pencil, and crayon—in every stage of execution, some being unfinished outlines, and others finished to perfection. They embraced a vast variety of subjects—single objects, landscapes, sketches for historical pieces, and copies of statuary from the antique. Like a detective seeking for evidence[Pg 215] I examined each sketch suspiciously, holding it near the light and turning it over to see whether there was any mark or writing on the back. I came at last to twelve sketches of different heads, and unfastening the tape that kept them together, I laid them out on the table and drew my uncle's attention to them.
 
"You see these twelve heads? They have been in this portfolio a year, for Vasari showed them to me last Christmas and asked me whether I recognised any of them. As a fact I did not, but I fancied at the time he had an interested motive for the question, and now I am pretty certain he had."
 
My uncle looked at them carefully.
 
"You don't see a likeness to any one you know?"
 
"No," I replied.
 
"Try again."
 
There was one face that seemed familiar. It was that of a man about thirty years of age, but the head was quite bald, and the face destitute of beard and moustache.
 
"I may have seen this fellow," I said. "I seem to have a faint recollection of him."
 
My uncle laughed.
 
"Your recollections of your brother are growing very faint indeed if you do not recognize that face. Can't you see that it is George?"
 
"George?" I cried.
 
"Yes. That is George's face, minus hair, beard, and moustache."
 
Now that the likeness to George had been pointed out I could see it clearly enough, but the absence of all hair had imparted so different a look to the face that I doubt whether I myself would ever have discovered it.
 
"And why the deuce should he sketch George like[Pg 216] that?" I asked, thoroughly perplexed. "I remember how relieved he seemed when I did not recognise it."
 
"Can't say," replied my uncle. "It's another of those little mystifications which he delights to put upon his friends. By the way, wasn't C?sar bald, and beardless?"
 
"'Like laurels on the bald first C?sar's head,'" I murmured. "Yes, at the time of his death he was. But I don't quite see the relevancy of your remark."
 
"Merely a passing thought," he said lightly. "It's not much of a portrait of George; it's like him, and yet not like him. And there is a most uncanny expression about the eyes."
 
He threw aside the sketch, which the Baronet took up. As soon as his eyes fell upon it a half-repressed exclamation escaped his lips, and setting his gold-rimmed glasses upon his nose he took a long and careful look at the drawing.
 
"Do you say this is Captain Willard?" he asked, elevating his eyebrows in surprise.
 
"Yes," I replied. "That is my brother."
 
"He is a handsome man," said Sir Hugh, studying the sketch as if it were some puzzle offered to him for solution.
 
"Do you know him?" I asked.
 
"I have never seen Captain Willard in my life," he replied, laying aside the drawing.
 
It would have been wrong to doubt his word, but if any one else had spoken in the same curious, halting way I should have hesitated to believe him. I was on the point of asking him the reason of his evident surprise, when my attention was caught by a series of remarkable drawings that my uncle had just taken out of the portfolio. There were completed sketches of[Pg 217] gravestones and monumental pieces, which I supposed had been drawn by Vasari at the request of some cemetery mason in want of new designs, or else were the result of some competition at an art school. Whatever their origin, they had provided Vasari with an opportunity of displaying his inventiveness and taste, and the result was a collection of from twenty to thirty funeral monuments of various graceful shapes, decorated with broken columns, reversed torches, urns, crosses, wreaths, and other objects emblematic of death and immortality.
 
But what interested me most in this collection was a sort of grim humour, which had taken the shape of placing on these monuments the names of many distinguished men, and from my knowledge of the artist's character, I readily discerned that the persons thus selected were those from whose opinions he differed. I suppose his eccentricity found a kind of pleasure in thus consigning to the tomb men whom he disliked. Some of the epitaphs served only to display the morbid vanity of the man, as, for instance:—
 
"Sacred to the Memory of
 
Frederick, Lord Leighton,
p. r. a.,
 
Who was succeeded in the Presidential Chair
by the Equally Eminent if not
Superior Artist,
 
Angelo Vasari."
 
A future Walpole in search of "Anecdotes of Painting" must not overlook the following curious incident:—
 
[Pg 218]
 
"In Memoriam,
 
Alma Tadema,
 
The Star among Artists,
 
Who died with grief at the eclipse of his name
by the Rising Sun,
 
Angelo Vasari."
 
"Egad!" said the Baronet, who was looking on with the half-abstracted air that he had displayed since the discovery of George's likeness. "I don't wonder he shut the portfolio up when he came to this exhibition of his vanity. What a conceited fool the fellow is!"
 
Casually turning over the rest of these drawings, we came upon the following singular epitaph, inscribed on a monument crowned with a piece of sculpture representing the Crucifixion:
 
"To the Memory of the Sublime
Giotto,
 
Who, in his zeal for Art,
 
Set at defiance those fantastic notions which
Casuists call Morality,
 
And whose example inspired the genius of
Angelo Vasari,
 
With the idea that gave birth to that Noble
Masterpiece,
 
'The Fall of C?sar.'"
 
"Giotto? Giotto?" repeated the Baronet with a thoughtful ............