"It is a very beautiful picture," she said.

The Marquess's brows lifted, and he bent his head as if apologizing for

his curtness.

"That is true," he said, more gently. "It is one of the best in the

collection. And your interest is only an artistic one?"

Celia had only to say "Yes," and to escape; but she was not given to

equivocation; moreover, her high spirit had resented the anger and

suspicion in his manner, for which, she felt, he had no justification.

"Not only, my lord," she said, as quietly as before; "but the first time

I saw it, I thought that the face of the portrait was like that of

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someone I knew."

She was startled by the sudden change in his demeanour. His brows came

down again, his eyes grew piercing, his lips stern.

"Like whom?" he demanded, shortly.

"I don't know," she said, with a slight shrug; "that is why the portrait

interests me so. If I could trace the resemblance, I should--well, not

be so bothered by it."

The Marquess paced to the fire and held his hands to it, as if he had

become cold suddenly.

"Strange!" he said, musingly, and with an air of indifference, which

Celia felt to be assumed. "Is the man you think resembles the portrait

young--or old?"

As he put the question, a sudden flood of light seemed to illumine

Celia's mind; it was as if she had been gazing perplexedly on a statue

swathed in its covering, and as if the covering had been swept away and

the statue revealed. She knew now that the face in the portrait

resembled that of the young man on whom her thoughts were always

dwelling. The resemblance was faint; but it existed in her mind quite

plainly. The revelation brought the blood to her face, then she became

pale again. The Marquess, looking over his shoulder, waited for her

answer.

"I remember now, my lord----" she began.

"Young or old?" he said, not loudly, but with a quiet insistence.

"Young," replied Celia.

To her surprise and relief, the Marquess gave a little dry, almost

contemptuous, laugh; and as he turned to her, with his hands folded

behind his back, there was a faint smile on his face.

"Who is he?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Celia.

"You don't know!" said his lordship, raising his brows. "Pardon me, I

don't understand."

Celia stood before him, her hands clasped together in a clasp that,

light at first, became tighter; her eyes were downcast, a slight fold

came between her brows; for an inappreciable second or two, she lost

consciousness of the great hall, the tall, bent figure silhouetted

against the fire; she was back in Brown's Buildings, in that

poverty-stricken room, and she saw the young man's head lying on his

outstretched arm, a revolver in his hand.




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