halfway up the winding stairways, i paused in some astonishment. it had just occurred to me that i was going up the steps two at a time and that my heart was beating like mad.

i reflected. here was i racing along like a schoolboy, and wherefor? what occasion was there for such unseemly haste? in the first place, it was now but a few minutes after eleven, and she had asked me for luncheon; there was no getting around that. at best luncheon was two hours off. so why was i galloping like this? the series of self-inflicted questions found me utterly unprepared; i couldn't answer one of them. my brain somehow couldn't get at them intelligently; i was befuddled. i progressed more slowly, more deliberately, finally coming to a full stop in a sitting posture in one of the window casements, where i lighted a cigarette and proceeded to thresh the thing out in my mind before going any farther.

the fundamental problem was this: why was i breaking my neck to get to her before blatchford had time to deliver my response to her appealing little note? it was something of a facer, and it set me to wondering. why was i so eager? could it be possible that there was anything in the speculation of my servants? i recalled the sensation of supreme delight that shot through me when i received her note, but after that a queer sort of oblivion seems to have surrounded me, from which i was but now emerging in a timely struggle for self-control. there was something really startling about it, after all.

i profess to be a steady, level-headed, prosaic sort of person, and this surprising reversion to extreme youthfulness rather staggered me. in fact it brought a cold chill of suspicion into existence. grown-up men do not, as a rule, fly off the head unless confronted by some prodigious emotion, such as terror, grief or guilt. and yet here was i going into a perfect rampage of rapture over a simple, unconventional communication from a lady whom i had known for less than a month and for whom i had no real feeling of sympathy whatever. the chill of suspicion continued to increase.

if it had been a cigar that i was smoking it would have gone out through neglect. a cigarette goes on forever and smells.

after ten minutes of serious, undisturbed consideration of the matter, i came to the final conclusion that it was not love but pity that had driven me to such abnormal activity. it was nonsense to even argue the point.

having thoroughly settled the matter to my own satisfaction and relief, i acknowledged a feeling of shame for having been so precipitous. i shudder to think of the look she would have given me if i had burst in upon her while in the throes of that extraordinary seizure. obviously i had lost my wits. now i had them once more, i knew what to do with them. first of all, i would wait until one o'clock before presenting myself for luncheon. clearly that was the thing to do. secondly, i would wait on this side of the castle instead of returning to my own rooms, thereby avoiding a very unpleasant gauntlet. luckily i had profited by the discussion in the servants' quarters and was not wearing a three days' growth of beard. moreover, i had taken considerable pains in dressing that morning. evidently a presentiment.

for an hour and a half by my watch, but five or six by my nerves, i paced the lonely, sequestered halls in the lower regions of the castle. two or three times i was sure that my watch had stopped, the hands seemed so stationary. the third time i tried to wind it, i broke the mainspring, but as it was nearly one o'clock not much harm was done.

that one little sentence, "have you deserted me?" grew to be a voluminous indictment. i could think of nothing else. there was something ineffably sad and pathetic about it. had she been unhappy because of my beastly behaviour? was her poor little heart sore over my incomprehensible conduct? perhaps she had cried through sheer loneliness—but no! it would never do for me to even think of her in tears. i remembered having detected tears in her lovely eyes early in our acquaintance and the sight of them—or the sensation, if you please—quite unmanned me.

at last i approached her door. upon my soul, my legs were trembling! i experienced a silly sensation of fear. a new problem confronted me: what was i to say to her? following close upon this came another and even graver question: what would she say to me? suppose she were to look at me with hurt, reproachful eyes and speak to me with a little quaver in her voice as she held out her hand to me timidly—what then? what would become of me? by jove, the answer that flashed through my whole body almost deprived me of reason!

i hesitated, then, plucking up my courage and putting all silly questions behind me, i rapped resoundingly on the door.

the excellent hawkes opened it! i started back in dismay. he stood aside impressively.

"mr. smart!" he announced. damn it all!

i caught sight of the countess. she was arranging some flowers on the table. blatchford was placing the knives and forks. helen marie louise antoinette stood beside her mistress holding a box of flowers in her hands.

what was it that i had been thinking out there in those gloomy halls? that she would greet me with a pathetic, hurt look and...

"good morning!" she cried gaily. hurt? pathetic? she was radiant! "so glad to see you again. hawkes has told me how busy you've been." she dried her hands on the abbreviated apron of helen marie louise antoinette and then quite composedly extended one for me to shake.

i bowed low over it. "awfully, awfully busy," i murmured. was it relief at finding her so happy and unconcerned that swept through me? i am morally, but shamelessly certain it wasn't!

"don't you think the roses are lovely in that old silver bowl?"

"exquisite."

"blatchford found it in the plate vault," she said, standing off to admire the effect. "do you mind if i go on arranging them?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer resumed her employment.

"bon jour, m'sieur," said helen marie louise antoinette over her mistress's shoulder. one never knows whether a french maid is polite or merely spiteful.

"it seems ages since i saw you last," said the countess in a matter-of-fact tone, jiggling a rose into position and then standing off to study the effect, her head cocked prettily at an angle of inquiry.

it suddenly occurred to me that she had got on very well without me during the ages. the discovery irritated me. she was not behaving at all as i had expected. this cool, even casual reception certainly was not in keeping with my idea of what it ought to have been. "but mr. poopendyke has been awfully kind. he has given me all the news."

poopendyke! had he been visiting her without my knowledge or—was i about to say consent?

"there hasn't been a great deal of news," i said.

she dropped a long-stemmed rose and waited for me to pick it up.

"thank you," she said. "oh, did it prick you?"

"yes," said i flatly. then we both gave the closest attention to the end of my thumb while i triumphantly squeezed a tiny drop of blood out of it. i sucked it. the incident was closed. she was no longer interested in the laceration.

"mr. poopendyke knew how lonely i would be. he telephoned twice a day."

i thought i detected a slight note of pique in her voice. but it was so slight that it was hardly worth while to exult.

"so you thought i had deserted you," i said, and was a little surprised at the gruffness in my voice.

"the violets appeased me," she said, with a smile. for the first time i noticed that she was wearing a large bunch of them. "you will be bankrupt, mr. smart, if you keep on buying roses and violets and orchids for me."

so the roses were mine also! i shot a swift glance at the mantelpiece, irresistibly moved by some mysterious force. there were two bowls of orchids there. i couldn't help thinking of the meddling, over-zealous geni that served the hero of anstey's "brass bottle" tale. he was being outdone by my efficacious secretary.

"but they are lovely," she cried, noting the expression in my face and misconstruing it. "you are an angel."

that was the last straw. "i am nothing of the sort," i exclaimed, very hot and uncomfortable.

"you are," was her retort. "there! isn't it a lovely centre-piece? now, you must come and see rosemary. she adores the new elephant you sent to her."

"ele—" i began, blinking my eyes. "oh—oh, yes, yes. ha, ha! the elephant." good heavens, had that idiotic poopendyke started a menagerie in my castle?

i was vastly relieved to find that the elephant was made of felt and not too large to keep rosemary from wielding it skilfully in an assault upon the hapless jinko. she had it firmly gripped by the proboscis, and she was shrieking with delight. jinko was barking in vain-glorious defence. the racket was terrible.

the countess succeeded in quelling the disturbance, and rosemary ran up to kiss me. jinko, who disliked me because i looked like the count, also ran up but his object was to bite me. i made up my mind, there and then that if i should ever, by any chance, fall in love with his mistress i would inaugurate the courting period by slaying jinko.

rosemary gleefully permitted me to sip honey from that warm little spot on her neck, and i forgot many odious things. as i held her in my arms i experienced a vivid longing to have a child of my own, just like rosemary.

our luncheon was not as gay nor as unconventional as others that had preceded it. the countess vainly tried to make it as sprightly as its predecessors, but gave over in despair in the face of my taciturnity. her spirits drooped. she became strangely uneasy and, i thought, preoccupied.

"what is on your mind, countess?" i asked rather gruffly, after a painful silence of some duration.

she regarded me fixedly for a moment. she seemed to be searching my thoughts. "you," she said very succinctly. "why are you so quiet, so funereal?" i observed a faint tinge of red in her cheeks and an ominous steadiness in her gaze. was there anger also?

i apologised for my manners, and assured her that my work was responsible. but her moodiness increased. at last, apparently at the end of her resources, she announced that she was tired: that after we had had a cigarette she would ask to be excused, as she wanted to lie down. would i come to see her the next day?

"but don't think of coming, mr. smart," she declared, "if you feel you cannot spare the time away from your work."

i began to feel heartily ashamed of my boorishness. after all, why should i expend my unpleasant humour on her?

"my dear countess," i exclaimed, displaying a livelier interest than at any time before, "i shall be delighted to come. permit me to add that my work may go hang."

her face brightened. "but men must work," she objected.

"not when women are willing to play," i said.

"splendid!" she cried. "you are reviving. i feel better. if you are going to be nice, i'll let you stay."

"thanks. i'll do my best."

she seemed to be weighing something in her mind. her chin was in her hands, her elbows resting on the edge of the table. she was regarding me with speculative eyes.

"if you don't mind what the servants are saying about us, mr. smart, i am quite sure i do not."

i caught my breath.

"oh, i understand everything," she cried mischievously, before i could stammer anything in reply. "they are building a delightful romance around us. and why not? why begrudge them the pleasure? no harm can come of it, you see."

"certainly no harm," i floundered.

"the gossip is confined to the castle. it will not go any farther. we can afford to laugh in our sleeves, can't we?"

"ha, ha!" i laughed in a strained effort, but not into my sleeve. "i rejoice to hear you say that you don't mind. no more do i. it's rather jolly."

"fancy any one thinking we could possibly fall in love with each other," she scoffed. her eyes were very bright. there was a suggestion of cold water in that remark.

"yes, just fancy," i agreed.

"absurd!"

"but, of course, as you say, if they can get any pleasure out of it, why should we object? it's a difficult matter keeping a cook any way."

"well, we are bosom friends once more, are we not? i am so relieved."

"i suppose poopendyke told you the—the gossip?"

"oh, no! i had it from my maid. she is perfectly terrible. all french maids are, mr. smart. beware of french maids! she won't have it any other way than that i am desperately in love with you. isn't she delicious?"

"eh?" i gasped.

"and she confides the wonderful secret to every one in the castle, from rosemary down to jinko."

"'pon my soul!" i murmured.

"and so now they all are saying that i am in love with you," she laughed. "isn't it perfectly ludicrous?"

"perfectly," i said without enthusiasm. my heart sank like lead. ludicrous? was that the way it appeared to her? i had a little spirit left. "quite as ludicrous as the fancy britton has about me. he is obsessed by the idea that i am in love with you. what do you think of that?"

she started. i thought her eyes narrowed for a second. "ridiculous," she said, very simply. then she arose abruptly. "please ring the bell for hawkes."

i did so. hawkes appeared. "clear the table, hawkes," she said. "i want you to read all these newspaper clippings, mr. smart," she went on, pointing to a bundle on a chair near the window. we crossed the room. "now that you know who i am, i insist on your reading all that the papers have been saying about me during the past five or six weeks."

i protested but she was firm. "every one else in the world has been reading about my affairs, so you must do likewise. no, it isn't necessary to read all of them. i will select the most lurid and the most glowing. you see there are two sides to the case. the papers that father can control are united in defending my action; the european press is just the other way. sit down, please. i'll hand them to you."

for an hour i sat there in the window absorbing the astonishing history of the tarnowsy abduction case. i felt rather than observed the intense scrutiny with which she favoured me.

at last she tossed the remainder of the bundle unread, into a corner. her face was aglow with pleasure.

"you've read both sides, and i've watched you—oh, so closely. you don't believe what the papers over here have to say. i saw the scowls when you read the translations that mr. poopendyke has typed for me. now i know that you do not feel so bitterly toward me as you did at first."

i was resolved to make a last determined stand for my original convictions.

"but our own papers, the new york, boston, philadelphia, chicago journals,—still voice, in a way, my principal contention in the matter, countess. they deplore the wretched custom among the idle but ambitious rich that made possible this whole lamentable state of affairs. i mean the custom of getting a title into the family at any cost."

"my dear mr. smart," she said seriously, "do you really contend that all of the conjugal unhappiness and unrest of the world is confined to the american girls who marry noblemen? has it escaped your notice that there are thousands of unhappy marriages and equally happy divorces in america every year in which noblemen do not figure at all? have you not read of countless cases over there in which conditions are quite similar to those which make the tarnowsy fiasco so notorious? are not american women stealing their children from american husbands? are all american husbands so perfect that count tarnowsy would appear black among them? are there no american men who marry for money, and are there no american girls given in marriage to wealthy suitors of all ages, creeds and habits? why do you maintain that an unfortunate alliance with a foreign nobleman is any worse than an unhappy marriage with an ordinary american brute? are there no bad husbands in america?"

"all husbands are bad," i said, "but some are more pre-eminently evil than others. i am not finding fault with tarnowsy as a husband. he did just what was expected of him. he did what he set out to do. he isn't to be blamed for living up to his creed. there are bad husbands in america, and bad wives. but they went into the game blindly, most of them. they didn't find out their mistake until after the marriage. the same statement applies to husbands and wives the world over. i hold a brief only against the marriage wherein the contracting parties, their families, their friends, their enemies, their bankers and their creditors know beforehand that it's a business proposition and not a sacred compact. but we've gone into all this before. why rake it up again."

"but there are many happy marriages between american girls and foreign noblemen—dozens of them that i could mention."

"i grant you that. i know of a few myself. but i think if you will reflect for a moment you'll find that money had no place in the covenant. they married because they loved one another. the noblemen in such cases are real noblemen, and their american wives are real wives. there are no count tarnowsys among them. my blood curdles when i think of you being married to a man of the tarnowsy type. it is that sort of a marriage that i execrate."

"the buy and sell kind?" she said, and her eyes fell. the colour had faded from her cheeks.

"yes. the premeditated murder type."

she looked up after a moment. there was a bleak expression in her eyes.

"will you believe me if i say to you that i went into it blindly?"

"god bless my soul, i am sure of it," i cried earnestly. "you had never been in love. you did not know."

"i have told you that i believed myself to be in love with maris. doesn't—doesn't that help matters a little bit?"

i looked away. the hurt, appealing look was in her eyes. it had come at last, and, upon my soul, i was as little prepared to repel it as when i entered the room hours ago after having lived in fear of it for hours before that. i looked away because i knew that i should do something rash if i were to lose my head for an instant.

she was like an unhappy pleading child. i solemnly affirm that it was tender-heartedness that moved me in this crucial instant. what man could have felt otherwise?

i assumed a coldly impersonal tone. "not a single editorial in any of these papers holds you responsible for what happened in new york," i said.

she began to collect the scattered newspaper clippings and the type-written transcriptions. i gathered up those in the corner and laid them in her lap. her fingers trembled a little.

"throw them in the fireplace, please," she said in a low voice. "i kept them only for the purpose of showing them to you. oh, how i hate, how i loathe it all!"

when i came back from the fireplace, she was lying back in the big, comfortable chair, a careless, whimsical smile on her lips. she was as serene as if she had never known what it was to have a heart-pang or an instant of regret in all her life. i could not understand that side of her.

"and now i have some pleasant news for you," she said. "my mother will be here on thursday. you will not like her, of course, because you are already prejudiced, but i know she will like you."

i knew i should hate her mother, but of course it would not do to say so.

"next thursday?" i inquired. she nodded her head. "i hope she will like me," i added feeling that it was necessary.

"she was a colingraft, you know."

"indeed?" the colingraft family was one of the oldest and most exclusive in new york. i had a vague recollection of hearing one of my fastidious friends at home say that it must have been a bitter blow to the colingrafts when, as an expedient, she married the vulgarly rich jasper titus, then of st. paul, minnesota. it had been a clear case of marrying the money, not the man. aline's marriage, therefore, was due to hereditary cold-bloodedness and not to covetousness. "a fine old name, countess."

"titus suggests titles, therefore it has come to be our family name," she said, with her satiric smile. "you will like my father. he loves me more than any one else in the world—more than all the world. he is making the great fight for me, mr. smart. he would buy off the count to-morrow if i would permit him to do so. of late i have been thinking very seriously of suggesting it to him. it would be the simplest way out of our troubles, wouldn't it? a million is nothing to my father."

"nothing at all, i submit, in view of the fact that it may be the means of saving you from a term in prison for abducting rosemary?"

she paled. "do you really think they would put me in prison?"

"unquestionably," i pronounced emphatically.

"oh, dear!" she murmured.

"but they can't lock you up until they've caught you," said i reassuringly. "and i will see to it that they do not catch you."

"i—i am depending on you entirely, mr. smart," she said anxiously. "some day i may be in a position to repay you for all the kindness—"

"please, please!"

"—and all the risk you are taking for me," she completed. "you see, you haven't the excuse any longer that you don't know my name and story. you are liable to be arrested yourself for—"

there came a sharp rapping on the door at this instant—a rather imperative, sinister rapping, if one were to judge by the way we started and the way we looked at each other. we laughed nervously.

"goodness! you'd thing sherlock holmes himself was at the door," she cried. "see who it is, please."

i went to the door. poopendyke was there. he was visibly excited.

"can you come down at once, mr. smart?" he said in a voice not meant to reach the ears of the countess.

"what's up?" i questioned sharply.

"the jig, i'm afraid," he whispered sententiously. poopendyke, being a stenographer, never wasted words. he would have made a fine playwright.

"good lord! detectives?"

"no. count tarnowsy and a stranger."

"impossible!"

the countess, alarmed by our manner, quickly crossed the room.

"what is it?" she demanded.

"the count is downstairs," i said. "don't be alarmed. nothing can happen. you—"

she laughed. "oh, is that all? my dear mr. smart, he has come to see you about the frescoes."

"but i have insulted him!"

"not permanently," she said. "i know him too well. he is like a leech. he has given you time to reflect and therefore regret your action of the other night. go down and see him."

poopendyke volunteered further information. "there is also a man down there—a cheap looking person—who says he must see the countess tarnowsy at once."

"a middle-aged man with the upper button of his waistcoat off?" she asked sharply.

"i—i can't say as to the button."

"i am expecting one of my lawyers. it must be he. he was to have a button off."

"i'll look him over again," said poopendyke.

"do. and be careful not to let the count catch a glimpse of him. that would be fatal."

"no danger of that. he went at once to old conrad's room."

"good! i had a note from him this morning, mr. smart. he is mr. bangs of london."

"may i inquire, countess, how you manage to have letters delivered to you here? isn't it extremely dangerous to have them go through the mails?"

"they are all directed to the schmicks," she explained.

"they are passed on to me. now go and see the count. don't lend him any money."

"i shall probably kick him over the cliff," i said, with a scowl.

she laid her hand upon my arm. "be careful," she said very earnestly, "for my sake."

poopendyke had already started down the stairs. i raised her hand to my lips. then i rushed away, cursing myself for a fool, an ingrate, a presumptuous bounder.

my uncalled-for act had brought a swift flush of anger to her cheek. i saw it quite plainly as she lowered her head and drew back into the shadow of the curtain. bounder! that is what i was for taking advantage of her simple trust in me. strange to say, she came to the head of the stairs and watched me until i was out of sight in the hall below.

the count was waiting for me in the loggia. it was quite warm and he fanned himself lazily with his broad straw hat. as i approached, he tossed his cigarette over the wall and hastened to meet me. there was a quaint diffident smile on his lips.

"it is good to see you again, old fellow," he said, with an amiability that surprised me. "i was afraid you might hold a grievance against me. you americans are queer chaps, you know. our little tilt of the other evening, you understand. stupid way for two grown-up men to behave, wasn't it? of course, the explanation is simple. we had been drinking. men do silly things in their cups."

consummate assurance! i had not touched a drop of anything that night.

"i assure you, count tarnowsy, the little tilt, as you are pleased to call it, was of no consequence. i had quite forgotten that it occurred. sorry you reminded me of it."

the irony was wasted. he beamed. "my dear fellow, shall we not shake hands?"

there was something irresistibly winning about him, as i've said before. something boyish, ingenuous, charming,—what you will,—that went far toward accounting for many things that you who have never seen him may consider incomprehensible.

a certain wariness took possession of me. i could well afford to temporise. we shook hands with what seemed to be genuine fervour.

"i suppose you are wondering what brings me here," he said, as we started toward the entrance to the loggia, his arm through mine. "i do not forget a promise, mr. smart. you may remember that i agreed to fetch a man from munchen to look over your fine old frescoes and to give you an estimate. well, he is here, the very best man in europe."

"i am sure i am greatly indebted to you, count," i said, "but after thinking it over i've—"

"don't say that you have already engaged some one to do the work," he cried, in horror. "my dear fellow, don't tell me that! you are certain to make a dreadful mistake if you listen to any one but schwartzmuller. he is the last word in restorations. he is the best bet, as you would say in new york. any one else will make a botch of the work. you will curse the day you—"

i checked him. "i have virtually decided to let the whole matter go over until next spring. however, i shall be happy to have mr. schwartzmuller's opinion. we may be able to plan ahead."

a look of disappointment flitted across his face. the suggestion of hard old age crept into his features for a second and then disappeared.

"delays are dangerous," he said. "my judgment is that those gorgeous paintings will disintegrate more during the coming winter than in all the years gone by. they are at the critical stage. if not preserved now,—well, i cannot bear to think of the consequences. ah, here is herr schwartzmuller."

just inside the door, we came upon a pompous yet servile german who could not by any means have been mistaken for anything but the last word in restoration. i have never seen any one in my life whose appearance suggested a more complete state of rehabilitation. his frock coat was new, it had the unfailing smell of new wool freshly dyed; his shoes were painfully new; his gloves were new; his silk hat was resplendently new; his fat jowl was shaved to a luminous pink; his gorgeous moustache was twisted up at the ends to such a degree that when he smiled the points wavered in front of his eyes, causing him to blink with astonishment. he was undeniably dressed up for the occasion. my critical eye, however, discovered a pair of well-worn striped trousers badly stained, slightly frayed at the bottom and inclined to bag outward at the knee. perhaps i should have said that he was dressed up from the knee.

"this is the great herr schwartzmuller, of the imperial galleries in munchen," said the count introducing us.

the stranger bowed very profoundly and at the same time extracted a business card from the tail pocket of his coat. this he delivered to me with a smile which seemed to invite me to participate in a great and serious secret: the secret of irreproachable standing as an art expert and connoisseur. i confess to a mistaken impression concerning him up to the moment he handed me his clumsy business card. my suspicions had set him down as a confederate of count tarnowsy, a spy, a secret agent or whatever you choose to consider one who is employed in furthering a secret purpose. but the business card removed my doubts and misgivings. it stamped him for what he really was: there is no mistaking a german who hands you his business card. he destroys all possible chance for discussion.

in three languages the card announced that he was "august schwartzmuller, of the imperial galleries, munchen, zumpe & schwartzmuller, proprietors. restorations a specialty." there was much more, but i did not have time to read all of it. moreover, the card was a trifle soiled, as if it had been used before. there could be no doubt as to his genuineness. he was an art expert.

for ten minutes i allowed them to expatiate on the perils of procrastination in the treatment of rare old canvases and pigments, and then, having formulated my plans, blandly inquired what the cost would be. it appears that herr schwartzmuller had examined the frescoes no longer than six months before in the interests of a new york gentleman to whom count hohendahl had tried to sell them for a lump sum. he was unable to recall the gentleman's name.

"i should say not more than one hundred and fifty thousand marks, perhaps less," said the expert, rolling his calculative eye upward and running it along the vast dome of the hall as if to figure it out in yards and inches.

the count was watching me with an eager light in his eyes. he looked away as i shot a quick glance at his face. the whole matter became as clear as day to me. he was to receive a handsome commission if the contract was awarded. no doubt his share would be at least half of the amount stipulated. i had reason to believe that the work could be performed at a profit for less than half the figure mentioned by the german.

"nearly forty thousand dollars, in other words," said i reflectively.

"they are worth ten times that amount, sir," said the expert gravely.

i smiled skeptically. the count took instant alarm. he realised that i was not such a fool as i looked, perhaps.

"hohendahl was once offered two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, mr. smart," he said.

"why didn't he accept it?" i asked bluntly. "he sold the whole place to me, contents included, for less than half that amount."

"it was years ago, before he was in such dire straits," he explained quickly.

a terrible suspicion entered my head. i felt myself turn cold. if the frescoes were genuine they were worth all that schwartzmuller declared; that being the case why should hohendahl have let them come to me for practically nothing when there were dozens of collectors who would have paid him the full price? i swallowed hard, but managed to control my voice.

"as a matter of fact, count tarnowsy," i said, resorting to unworthy means, "i have every reason to believe that hohendahl sold the originals sometime ago, and had them replaced on the ceilings by clever imitations. they are not worth the canvas they are painted on."

he started. i intercepted the swift look of apprehension that passed from him to the stolid schwartzmuller, whose face turned a shade redder.

"impossible!" cried tarnowsy sharply.

"by no means impossible," i said calmly, now sure of my ground. "to be perfectly frank with you, i've known from the beginning that they are fakes. your friend, count hohendahl, is nobler than you give him credit for being. he confessed to me at the time our transaction took place that the frescoes were very recent reproductions. the originals, i think, are in london or new york." i saw guilt in the face of herr schwartzmuller. his moustaches drooped with the corners of his mouth; he did not seem to be filling out the frock coat quite so completely as when i first beheld him. a shrewd suspicion impelled me to take chances on a direct accusation. i looked straight into the german's eyes and said: "now that i come to think of it, i am sure he mentioned the name of schwartzmuller in connection with the—"

"it is not true! it is not true!" roared the expert, without waiting for me to finish. "he lied to you, we—the great firm of zumpe & schwartzmuller—we could not be tempted with millions to do such a thing."

i went a step farther in my deductions. somehow i had grasped the truth: this pair deliberately hoped to swindle me out of forty thousand dollars. they knew the frescoes were imitations and yet they were urging me to spend a huge sum of money in restoring canvases that had been purposely made to look old and flimsy in order to deceive a more cautious purchaser than i. but, as i say, i went a step farther and deliberately accused count tarnowsy.

"moreover, count tarnowsy, you are fully aware of all this."

"my dear fellow,—"

"i'll not waste words. you are a damned scoundrel!"

he measured the distance with his eye and then sprang swiftly forward, striking blindly at my face.

i knocked him down!

schwartzmuller was near the door, looking over his shoulder as he felt for the great brass knob.

"mein gott!" he bellowed.

"stop!" i shouted. "come back here and take this fellow away with you!"

tarnowsy was sitting up, looking about him in a dazed, bewildered manner.

at that moment, poopendyke came running down the stairs, attracted by the loud voices. he was followed closely by three or four wide-eyed glaziers who were working on the second floor.

"in the name of heaven, sir!"

"i've bruised my knuckles horribly," was all that i said. i seemed to be in a sort of a daze myself. i had never knocked a man down before in my life. it was an amazingly easy thing to do. i could hardly believe that i had done it.

tarnowsy struggled to his feet and faced me, quivering with rage. i was dumbfounded to see that he was not covered with blood. but he was of a light, yellowish green. i could scarcely believe my eyes.

"you shall pay for this!" he cried. the tears rushed to his eyes. "coward! beast! to strike a defenceless man!"

his hand went swiftly to his breast pocket, and an instant later a small revolver flashed into view. it was then that i did another strange and incomprehensible thing. with the utmost coolness i stepped forward and wrested it from his hand. i say strange and incomprehensible for the reason that he was pointing it directly at my breast and yet i had not the slightest sensation of fear. he could have shot me like a dog. i never even thought of that.

"none of that!" i cried sharply. "now, will you be good enough to get out of this house—and stay out?"

"my seconds will call on you—"

"and they will receive just what you have received. if you or any of your friends presume to trespass on the privacy of these grounds of mine, i'll kick the whole lot of you into the danube. hawkes! either show or lead count tarnowsy to the gates. as for you, mr. schwartzmuller, i shall expose—"

but the last word in restorations had departed.