Lafelle reflected. In his complete absorption he had not noticed the effect of his query upon Ames. “I do not know,” he replied slowly. “London––Paris––Berlin––no, not there. And yet, it was in Europe, I am sure. Ah, I have it! In the Royal Gallery, at Madrid.”
Ames stared at him dully. “In the––Royal Gallery––at Madrid!” he echoed in a low tone.
“Yes,” continued Lafelle confidently, still studying the portrait, “I am certain of it. But,” turning abruptly upon Ames, “you may have known the original?”
Ames had recovered his composure. “I assure you I never had that pleasure,” he said lightly. “These art windows were set in by the designer of the yacht. Clever idea, I thought. Adds much to the general effect, don’t you think? By the way, if a portrait similar to that one hangs in the Royal Gallery at Madrid, you might try to learn the identity of the original for me. It’s quite interesting to feel that one may have the picture of some bewitching member of royalty hanging in his own apartments. By all means try to learn who the lady is––unless you know.” He stopped and searched the churchman’s face.
But Lafelle shook his head. “No, I do not know her. But––that picture has haunted me from the day I first saw it in the Royal Gallery. Who designed your yacht?”
“Crafts, of ‘Storrs and Crafts,’” replied Ames. “But he died a year ago. Storrs is gone, too. No help from that quarter.”
Lafelle moved thoughtfully toward the door. The valet appeared at that moment.
“Show Monsignor to his stateroom,” commanded Ames. “Good night, Monsignor, good night. Remember, we dock at seven-thirty, sharp.”
Returning to the table, Ames sat down and rapidly composed a message for his wireless operator to send across the dark waters to the city, and thence to acting-Bishop Wenceslas, in Cartagena. This done, he extinguished all the lights in the room excepting those which illuminated the stained-glass windows above. Drawing his chair up in front of the one which had stirred Lafelle’s query, he sat before it far into the morning, in absorbed contemplation, searching the sad features of the beautiful face, pondering, revolving, sometimes murmuring aloud, sometimes passing a hand across his brow, as if he would erase from a relentless memory an impression made long since and worn ever deeper by the recurrent thought of many years.